Tribulations
by Eterna1Soldier
Summary: While sailing out to sea, Hiccup gets caught in a ferocious storm that strands him far away from Berk. Separated from everything he's ever known, the teen must use his intelligence to survive not just the forces of nature, but also a group of trappers seeking to capture a legendary beast. Meanwhile, back at home Astrid must deal with the fallout of Berk's missing heir. AU
1. Village Heir

In the distance, beyond the eyes of the island's inhabitants, dark clouds gathered ominously, on a path set rapidly towards the Viking village. Though still far away, the mighty storm would strike the Nordic island sometime in the night, such was its speed and ferocity.

To the villagers though, there was no indication of the impending destruction that approached them. Around the island the sea was calm and waves gentle, and being late summer, warm enough to swim in without fear of sickness. The air was still, too still, so much so that sailors had to use oars to move their boats around the village docks. Only a few clouds dotted the northern sky, offering little shade from the sun's heat. The villagers did not complain though. The people of the north learned to appreciate the warmth whenever it would so sparingly grace them with its presence.

It was, in fact, quite a normal day for the Viking village of Berk. Fisherman returned from open waters with nets full of fish. Foreign trader ships haggled and traded at the docks. Farmers harvested milk, eggs, and grains to be stored and protected for the months ahead. Children ran about laughing and screaming, playing battle with wooden swords or racing one another to see who was the fastest or strongest. People went about their lives, doing chores, finishing repairs, making clothing, cleaning, cooking, gathering firewood, and fortifying the village defenses.

And, of course, training for battle.

If the villagers had known of the great peril that steadily approached their island, perhaps they would have made greater preparations.

* * *

A skinny boy stepped out of the Great Hall, shoulders sagged, caught in some emotion between sadness and frustration. It was dusk. The sun, in half retreat from the sky, cast a magnificent orange glow that lit up the horizon and surrounding village like the burning embers of the forge the boy spent so much of his time in. The air began to chill at the sun's waning strength, and for a brief moment the boy considered returning inside to the hearth of the Great Hall's fires, before deciding against it. The contempt and derision he would face inside the Hall was much colder than the chilly air outside.

 _He never listens,_ the boy thought to himself.

From the top steps of the looming Hall, most of the village could be seen as its residents prepared for a hard day's end in favor of night's sweet respite. The days were growing shorter, colder, and before long summer's blessing would give way to winter's scorn. The docks, which were so lively this time of year, would freeze shut, severely limiting fishing and cutting off trade with other villages across the archipelago. The soil too would frost over, preventing crops from growing. Living on an island so far north meant that every day was a harsh one, but winter here was especially brutal. Soon food will be limited. Supplies will be scarce. People will get sick, starve, and die.

But this was Berk. And they were Vikings. Death was an occupational hazard, as the boy's father often said.

Hugging his sketches close to his body to keep the wind from blowing them away, the lanky boy made his way down the long steps of the Great Hall towards the Forge. He passed through the hustling villagers easily, his slim frame allowing him to wind through the much bulkier Vikings who were too busy with chatter or work to take notice of him. The few who did acknowledge his existence did so with something akin to antipathy or pity. The boy was used to this. At best, he was tolerated among his people as a foolish youth whose heart was in the right place but only did more harm than good with his ideas of 'helping'. At worst, he was publicly scorned and shamed as the village screw-up, often times by his own father.

It didn't make matters any better that his father was none other than _Stoick the Vast_ , Chief of Berk and one of the best warriors in the Archipelago. The name was fitting, as the Chief was both stern and huge. Stoick Haddock was the indomitable center piece of Berkian life, revered for his enormous strength and prowess in battle, respected for his stalwart defense of Berk, and sought after for his wisdom in resolving fierce disputes. He was easily the largest Viking of the tribe, both in height and girth, towering over everyone and brimming with muscles. To the village, he was the very essence of strength itself, something that every Viking sought to be.

So it was with great wonder to many, how such a great Viking could have sired such a thin, scrawny toothpick of a son.

And Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, heir to the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, was certainly scrawny, especially by Viking standards. Born two months too early to the late _Valka the Fierce_ , his skinny body betrayed his far too early arrival on Midgard. His father had always kept hope, however, that his son would one day grow out of his 'un-Viking' body and that his Haddock blood would bear fruit. But after sixteen years, Hiccup was still…well, a hiccup.

He continued his path through the village, intent on getting to his destination quickly. Various aromas of cooked fish and other savory meats wafted through the air, watering the boy's mouth. His stomach rumbled angrily, and he cursed himself for not snatching something to eat from the Great Hall in his hasty retreat. But he had been so frustrated. His father had instantly rebuked his proposal, brushing it away along with the other adults at the table as he downed yet another mug of mead in his enormous hand. Hiccup didn't think it wise to approach him while he was drinking, but the Chief was always so busy that they rarely spent any time together. So figuring it was good as time as any, he had approached the table, waiting for the rapturous laughter at some joke he didn't hear to subside before clearing his throat.

"Um, uh, hey dad!" he had said too cheerily.

"Son," the Chief had nodded absently, his cheeks rose-colored by the mead and eyes still shinning from a bit of laughter. Hiccup knew that supper was the one time his father could relax from his chieftain duties and enjoy time with his battle brethren. When he was a child, they would always have supper at the house, just him and his father, reminiscing over the day's events. His younger self had looked forward to it; his father was so busy it was the only time they were really together for more than a few minutes. But as Hiccup grew older, but not much bigger, this special time became much rarer. Their conversations had become more awkward; forced. And before long what had occurred every day gradually turned into every other day, then to a few times a week, until eating at the Great Hall was the norm. His father would sit with his friends and other village leaders, drinking and eating merrily, and Hiccup would…sit by himself. But it wasn't so bad, he told himself. At least he got a whole table to himself. Plenty of space and quiet to write and sketch whatever ideas formulated in his mind. Of course, he tried to forget the many lonely days he spent spying glances at the others of his age. Spying glances at _her_ , laughing and having fun with the others across the Hall.

"Uh," Hiccup started, placing a hand behind his head. "So, heard you had to deal with the chicken prank from the Thorsten twins."

"Aye. Nearly caused a full on feud between the Thorsten's and the Hjort's."

Hiccup nodded. "Yeah so…uh dad, I've been meaning to talk to you about an idea I have." The large man seemed to deflate, and Hiccup tried hard not to wince. Okay, so his ideas hadn't always gone over smoothly. On more than a few occasions he had nearly burnt down the Forge, or destroyed his home. And there was that time he had burned half of Hoark's beard off. But really, just mild calibration issues.

His father sighed. "Hiccup, I have enough problems to deal with without you creating more. Winter is upon us and we're still recovering from the last raid."

"Yeah, about that," Hiccup began, ignoring his father's disapproving demeanor. "I was just thinking—"

"Gods help us!" someone at the table shouted, causing a fit of laughter.

"—what if we knew when the dragons were coming? Like if we had an advance warning of their approach?" More of the adults around the table were turning their attention to him. His nervousness increasing, he continued on. "If-if we knew exactly when they were coming, and from where, we could be prepared for them instead of always reacting to every attack. We could save food. And lives."

"The dragon attacks are random Hiccup," Stoick admonished. "They can happen at any time. How could we know when they're coming?"

"Signal fires!" Hiccup blurted excitedly. "I call it the Sentry Network. There are small islands and sea stacks everywhere in the west sea. We can build large bonfires from island to island leading out from Berk creating a chain of signal fires that—".

"Ha! Did you hear this guys!" another enormous Viking, Spitelout Jorgenson, jeered in a tone that seemed too high for his huge frame. Hiccup had a great dislike for the man, and even more so for his son, who seemed to inherit his father's narcissism but only half his wits. Which wasn't saying much. Spitelout slammed his fist on the table with rapturous chuckling. "A chain of fire on the sea? The boy's gone mad!"

More laughing. It was clear the Vikings had quite a lot to drink. They were hardly listening to what he was saying. Frowning, Hiccup tried to stay focused on his father, who looked…embarrassed.

"He thinks he can light the water ablaze!" another laughed.

What? That wasn't what he said at all.

"No, no!" Hiccup tried to explain. "Not the water. On the small islands throughout the—".

"Hiccup," his father cut off. "It's been a long day. Go home and finish your nightly chores."

"But—"

"Enough!" His patience was clearly running thin, and Hiccup knew he was better than anyone at pushing him over the limits. "I'll hear no more of this."

Despair was starting to grip him. He had worked really hard on this idea, gathering maps and measuring land distances, ensuring that the bonfires of each small land mass would be visible from one piece of land to the next. When the dragons would be sighted, the sentry of that station would light his fire ablaze, which could be seen by the nearest sentry signaling him to do the same, creating a chain of signals that would eventually reach all the way to Berk. He had calculated the supplies needed, the revisions required for whoever manned each station, and the time it would take for the signals to reach Berk. Even if it took each sentry five minutes to recognize another's fire and light their own in kind, it could still give Berk up to twenty minutes of advance warning of an impending dragon attack. And the land masses were close enough to be able to rotate each station daily. Hiccup knew this fact personally, though he would never tell his father that. He needed precise land distances and travel time for his idea to succeed, and old maps tended to be too unreliable or inaccurate.

So, on certain nights, he had snuck to the docks and commandeered a small rowboat, visiting each land mass himself. He was confident enough in his boating abilities, despite the obvious dangers of being out to sea at night alone. But it was the only way to get accurate measurements. And, he admitted, he secretly loved sailing. He volunteered quite often to go on fishing trips with Bucket and Mulch. They loved the extra pair of hands, and he loved the sense of exploration. He even got to test out new fishing nets and sailing equipment he had designed at the Forge. He didn't know if his father would approve of his many fishing voyages with the fishermen, so he never asked. Out in the sea, he was not a hiccup standing in his father's massive shadows. He was his own man, free from the stresses and expectations of the village.

Then he started venturing out at night on his own, first for the Sentry Network, and then for his own enjoyment. He knew it was stupid. Scauldrons and Thunderdrums were just a few of the sea dragons that threatened ships in the archipelago routinely. Not to mention the dangers of nature. But despite the fear, he had found it exhilarating. He had even discovered a tiny island, no more than a large mass of rock jutting out of the water, which had a cove with a roof protecting the inside from the weather. Hiccup doubted he was the first to find it; it was very close to Berk. But it had probably gone on ignored, unremarkable as it seemed from the outside. He had made the island cove his very own, quickly filling it with his notes, sketches, and inventions that he created. He loved it there; it felt good to get away. Still, if his father found out…

Not willing to give up on the Sentry Network just yet, Hiccup pulled out a stack of papers from beneath his vest. "Dad, if you just take a look at these." In his haste however, the papers slipped from his hand, scattering across the floor and under the table. _Oh, just perfect_ , he chided himself. He was quickly on his knees gathering his papers, much to the amusement of the others. "I can…show you…," he was reaching under the table now, "…all the necessary…"

"I said enough!" Hiccup froze in his actions, only to see his father rub the bridge of his nose. "Can't you see how ridiculous you look?"

Hiccup looked down at himself, then around the table, to see the Vikings staring to him as if he had sprouted another head.

 _This, this is pointless_ , he suddenly realized.

They weren't listening to him. They weren't ever going to listen to him. With a dejected sigh, Hiccup quickly picked up the rest of his papers and turned to leave, doing his best to ignore the weird stares he was getting from others in the Hall who had witnessed his blunder.

The racket of hammers and sawing of wood brought him out of his reverie. People were making hasty repairs to homes and structures destroyed from the last not-too-distant raid. The creeping coldness and sudden gusts of wind seemed to hasten the villagers in their work, as if realizing that time was not on their side. As if it ever was.

Winter always presented a challenge to the sturdy people of the village. Unlike most ways the villagers solved problems, the cold was an issue that could not be defeated in battle, or attacked with the swing of an axe, or stamped out by the crushing blow of a hammer. It was an enemy that was as enduring as it was undefeatable. So instead the villagers focused their time on something that they _could_ defeat in battle, swing an axe at, and crush with a hammer.

 _Dragons._

Everything on Berk revolved around killing dragons. They had been at war with the winged beasts since their ancestors first made claim to the island 300 years ago. The dragons raided in swarms, ransacking the village for food and livestock and burning anything in their path to get it. To kill a dragon was to bring honor to one's own Hall, to be celebrated by the villagers and be recognized as an elite warrior by all of Berk. To kill a dragon, you had to be tough in combat. You needed to wield great strength and be skilled with a weapon.

As Hiccup looked down upon his lanky form, he knew that he could do none of these things. He was undeterred though. He was nothing if not stubborn.

He may have been a walking fish bone, but what he lacked in muscles he made up for with his mind. He had a talent for seeing things differently, learning how things worked and finding ways to improve upon them. He loved discovering new things, often engrossing himself in books and parchments that would make its way to Berk via traders from the mainland. He learned to read and write by his third year, a stunning feat considering most of Berk was illiterate. By his eighth year he had taught himself to read several Anglo-Saxon and Germanic languages common among the mainland empires, a skill he found useful when bargaining with traders at the docks. But if there was one skill that no one in the village could match him in, it was drawing. Even Bucket paled in comparison to his artistic hand. Hiccup loved drawing. It was…he couldn't really describe it. There was something about the way the charcoal pencil grazed across a parchment, about hearing the coarse strokes when he formed lines into images, that was just so…relaxing. It calmed him, and he found himself drawing whenever the opportunity presented itself. He drew everything in sight. Places, buildings, inventions, trees, animals, and eventually people, though the later he found much harder for him to get right.

He had burned a great many parchments in the fires of the Forge, wanting no one to stumble across his drawings of others by mistake, especially drawings of _her_. Gods, if she ever caught some of his miserable attempts to capture her ferocity and beauty, he might just die of embarrassment. That is if she didn't kill him first.

 _Although, at least she would finally take notice of me._

When not reading, experimenting, or drawing, he spent much of his time in his room putting his ideas to paper in an attempt to solve the village's many problems that plagued his people. Using the knowledge gained from faraway places, he came up with better ways to farm the land by use of crop rotations, so that Berk could have a steady supply of food all year. He proposed a system of intricate canals and pipes that could channel waste from outhouses to the sea, saving time and effort from manual removal while also ensuring a cleaner environment that would help prevent sickness.

Much of his time, however, was spent finding new ways to fight dragons. His room and little space in the Forge was covered in innumerable sheets of paper filled with new weapon designs, traps, bolas, crossbows, catapults, and net launchers. Because…well, because…

 _If I can kill a dragon, it would fix everything._

No more Hiccup the Screw-up. No more Hiccup the Runt. No more Hiccup the—

"Useless, over here!" a far too arrogant voice shouted near the Forge.

"Oh great," Hiccup whispered to himself. The voice, of course, belonged to non-other than Snotlout Jorgensen, son of Spitelout and, though Hiccup was loathe to accept it, his cousin. The brawny teen strut towards him with a mace in hand and smug grin on his face.

"I've been looking for you."

Hiccup sighed. "What do you want Snotlout?" There were only two reasons why Snotlout ever sought him out. To bully him, or to get a broken weapon fixed.

He shoved the mace mere inches from Hiccup's face, causing the much skinnier teen to flinch. "I broke the handle on my mace," Snotlout boasted, as if he were describing some great accomplishment. "Guess I was too strong for it," he added, grinning in that arrogant, self-satisfied smirk that came naturally to him.

Hiccup took the weapon from Snotlout and examined it. The mace end itself was fine, but there was a fine crack about three inches long along the middle of the wooden shaft. It would require a new one, an easy fix for sure. He could even replace the wood with a much sturdier iron handle. Maybe even hollow it out to make it much lighter, while still maintaining its structural integrity. Then he remembered who exactly the weapon belonged too, and thought better of it.

"Well?" Snotlout crossed his arms impatiently.

"Well what?"

"Fix it Useless!" he demanded.

Hiccup let out an exasperated sigh. "You know, for someone who's convinced I'm useless, you sure do come to me an awful lot for help."

"What?!" Snotlout stepped into Hiccup's personal space, his face just inches away. Hiccup leaned back, repulsed by the smell of the other teen's rancid fish-breath. Gods, did this idiot ever wash out his mouth? Or bathe? "Real Vikings like me don't need help from useless runts like you!"

"Oh?" Hiccup pushed the mace back into Snotlout's hands, forcing the teen back with a strength that surprised him. He was still frustrated from earlier and he didn't want to deal with his pompous jerk of a cousin. "Then I'm sure you'll have no problem fixing it yourself. Just remember to turn the new shaft a quarter on the axel before hammering the handle in place," he instructed, knowing the bulky teen wouldn't understand what he was saying. He tried to maneuver past Snotlout but was grabbed by the shoulder and lurched back.

His cousin had him in a tight grip with one hand and mace pressed painfully against his chest with the other. _Oh right, why did I give the mace back again? Leave it to me to arm my enemies_. Snotlout snarled in his face, and Hiccup did his best not to show fear. He doubt he was succeeding. "Watch your tone Useless. When the Council wises up and names me as the next heir you'll be sorry."

"Sorry about what?" The male Thorsten twin, Tuffnut, asked with glee, sauntering up behind Snotlout with his sister and another fat teen in toe. Tuffnut and Ruffnut Thorsten were identical in almost every way; looks, behavior, intelligence—or lack thereof, and a propensity for mischief that could only be outmatched by Loki himself. Though slender in frame, the two were competent enough in a fight, trading in strength for ferocity. The twins reveled in chaos, violence, destruction, gross things, and generally anything that Hiccup would associate with _bad_. As such, he did his best to stay away from the Thorsten twins as much as possible. It could be considered to be hazardous to one's health, both physical and mental, simply by being in proximity to the two. When they weren't helping Snotlout make his life miserable, they were busy bickering and fighting with each other. Hiccup often noted, with no small amount of irony, that the two were so alike and yet could hardly stand each other. Still, where there was one, there was the other. The twins were inseparable.

Then there was Fishlegs Ingerman, easily the largest teen in Berk. Despite Fishlegs' huge Viking frame, the chubby teen was in fact quite timid by nature. He avoided violence as often as he could. When violence was inevitable, and in Berk it often was, Fishlegs would usually clamp up in fear, trying to shrink his enormous body behind much smaller, much braver Vikings. He was one of the few teens of Berk that Hiccup knew who could read and write, and it wasn't an odd sight to see him with a book or two in hand. Quite an intelligent Viking, he was. A rarity, Hiccup thought, and something he could respect. He was also one of the few teens who never messed with Hiccup, though he had never stood up for him either, instead choosing to watch his torment from the sidelines.

 _Wonderful. The gangs all here_.

Snotlout acknowledged their arrival with a smirk. "Useless here thinks he can order around the next Chief of Berk."

The twins looked at each other in confusion. "Wait, he's ordering _himself_ around?" Ruffnut asked.

"No idiots! I'm going to be the next Chief of Berk," Snotlout proclaimed.

"Will you let go of me already." Hiccup tried to shrug himself free but was, unsurprisingly, unsuccessful. Snotlout shoved him harshly against the Forge wall. The commotion briefly caught the attention of several wandering villagers who, once they saw what was happening, resumed their business with little interest. Hiccup being pushed around? That was nothing new.

"Um…uh…" Fishlegs stammered, twiddling his fingers. "The Council can't actually revoke an heir's birth right to the throne. Only the Chief can."

"What?" Snotlout turned his glare to the chubby teen angrily. "Whose side are you on Fishlegs?!"

Fishlegs put his hands up in defense. "Uh-I was just saying—"

"Maybe Stoick will make them dual to the death for the Chieftainship," Tuffnut said with mirth, his sister nodding in agreement with a savage grin. Hiccup gulped at the thought. He may not have been the model Viking, and he wasn't exactly on good terms with his father, much less the village. But his dad would never do something like that.

Right?

Snotlout snickered. "Yeah, like Hiccup the Useless would pose a challenge to me!"

"You'll never be Chief," Hiccup said tersely, just barely audible to the two of them.

Snotlout pushed the mace harder against his frame, scowling at the smaller teen. "And why's that, Toothpick?"

Hiccup shifted under Snotlout's firm grip uneasily. His cousin may have been dumber than a sack of potatoes, but he _was_ strong, of that he could attest. His day had already firmly slipped into 'exceptionally sucky' territory. He did not relish getting another black eye from the brawny teen, which would invariably get him a stern scolding by his father about how a true Viking should be able to defend himself. In fact, he should just keep his mouth shut. He did not want to inflame the situation further with a sarcastic quip—he might still get out of this without a beating.

 _Don't say anything stupid. Don't say anything stupid. Don't. Say. Anything. Stupid._

"Well, for starters," he began, "you have to be smarter than a half-witted Yak," Hiccup shrugged. "So you'll have to double your intelligence."

 _Oh, nice going. Way to diffuse the situation._

Snotlout's face scrounged up indignantly. "I'm smarter than a half-witted Yak! I'm smarter than _two_ half-witted Yaks!"

The twins burst out in a cackle.

"Shut up!" Snotlout screamed at them. He turned his attention back to Hiccup, his grip tightening. "You think you're so smart. Well I'll show you." He leaned in closer. "When I become Chief, the first thing I'm gonna do is banish you to Outcast Island. I won't have weaklings in _my_ tribe."

Snotlout pulled his fist back and punched Hiccup in the stomach, hard. He fell to a sitting position against the Forge wall, clutching his gut after having the wind knocked out of him. If he wasn't so focused on gasping for air, he may have chided himself for not keeping his stupid mouth shut. He brought his knees to his chest, bracing for yet another blow, when he heard the familiar sound of wood striking against dirt in a rhythmic pattern.

"What's goin on here?" a heavily accented, gruff voice inquired abruptly. All eyes turned to a peg-legged, hook-armed, massive hulk of a Viking. The burly man hobbled over to where Snotlout had Hiccup pinned against the Forge wall, the twins and Fishlegs giving him a wide berth. A scowl upon his face, the village blacksmith loomed over the brawny teen, who suddenly looked quite sheepish. "What do ya think yer doin with my apprentice, boy?"

 _Gobber, your timing is impeccable_ , Hiccup thought bitterly, still clenching his stomach. "Oh, you know," he coughed, "we're just having some good ol' cousinly bonding." He had finally regained control of his breathing enough to look up at the massive man, when in his peripheral he caught a flicker of golden, flowing strands of hair. He did a double take, for several paces behind the blacksmith stood…

No. Please no. Anyone but her. His heart skipped a beat as his face turned crimson red, which had nothing to do with his exerted effort to breathe normally. _Oh the Gods must hate me_.

It was no secret that Hiccup suffered routine beatings from Snotlout and his gang. But still, he did not want her to see him like this, so weak and pathetic on the ground. She was the model Viking. Brave. Fierce. Strong. Skilled in combat. And Gods, so very, very beautiful. Her flowing golden hair, sky-blue eyes, lovely heart-shaped face and fit, lithe body was, to Hiccup, the most beautiful thing in the world.

She was Astrid Hofferson. _The_ Astrid Hofferson. The prodigy Viking who excelled in everything she did. They called her Astrid the Fearless.

And he was Hiccup the Useless, sprawled helplessly on the dirt. Wincing with a strain, he leaned his hand against the wall and shakily propped himself back up. He was still hunched over with his arms around his abdomen, though at least now the mace was no longer pushed painfully into his chest.

"Useless here refused to fix my mace," Snotlout explained, as if he were the one wronged.

Without a second to waste the large man reached out and yanked the mace from Snotlout's grip with his one good hand, the clubbed weapon looking quite small while being held by the huge blacksmith. He briefly examined the weapon much the same way Hiccup had just moments before, though with much more ease, when suddenly…

 _Wham!_

Without warning Gobber threw the mace with a mighty heave against a wall adjacent to the Forge. The stone cracked where the mace head struck, but the wooden shaft exploded into dozens of splintered pieces before them. It felt like minutes had gone by without anyone saying a word, though it was probably only a few seconds.

Snotlout looked gobsmacked. "You—I can't believe you did that!"

"That was awesome!" Tuffnut cheered. If his sister's impish grin was anything to go by, she was in agreement.

Snotlout was seething. He pointed a beefy finger at the blacksmith, though still had the good mind to keep a fair bit of distance. "You broke my mace!"

"That's right!" Gobber leaned closer to Snotlout, who took a few steps back in kind. "And if ya don wan me ta break _you_ along withit I suggest ya leave now boy."

"You can't do this to me. I'm Snotlout Jorgensen!" he yelled indignantly. Gobber simply rolled his eyes. "This—you'll pay for this," his cousin screamed, turning to run away.

Gobber's eyes turned to the twins and Fishlegs. "If there's no need fer ya to be here, then git!" he bellowed, waving his hook to shew them off. They took the cue and left briskly, leaving only Hiccup and Gobber. And…

 _Astrid Hofferson._

Gods, what was she doing here? To watch the village runt take a beating? Probably. His breath just starting to draw normally again, Hiccup stood straighter as he risked an uneasy glance at the blond-haired, quick-tempered Viking girl. She hadn't moved an inch since she arrived with Gobber, holding her double-bladed battle axe at her side. He didn't know what he was expecting to see from her. Amusement? Annoyance? Displeasure? Disdain? Pity? Those were the usual reactions he received from other villagers. Instead she looked…pensive? What was she thinking? For a brief moment he made eye-contact with her before quickly breaking away, suddenly finding the ground very interesting to look at. His face heat up again.

"Are ya alright lad?" Gobber asked, concern laced in his voice.

Oh, right. He had forgotten Gobber was there. Out of everyone on Berk, the interchangeable-limbed, giant blacksmith was the only one who would intervene when he was taking a beating. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he spent so much of his time at the Forge. No one messed with him when Gobber the Belch was around. It was comforting.

"Who, me?" Hiccup replied with a lopsided grin. "Of course. Good thing you showed up when you did. I'm _waaaayyy_ to muscular for those guys. They wouldn't know what to do with all…this!" He flexed his bony arms in a ridiculous show of mock strength.

Gobber chuckled at the teen. "Well, when ya get all that raw Vikingness contained," he said with mirth, "ya can finish closen up shop. I'm callin it an early day cause' I had some bad fish and my stomach's not agreein' with me." He pulled his smith's apron over his head and tossed it on the bench near the Forge's front door. "Yep, had some bad gas in my time, but I've never bin' thrown outta the Great Hall before. I mean, I jus couldn stop f—"

"Gobber please!" Hiccup cut in, putting both arms up as if trying to shield himself from the blacksmith's far too-often vulgar commentary. "That's way more than I need to know."

The blacksmith shrugged. "I'll be cleanin up in the back," he said, hobbling away. "Oh, an ya might wanna wait a good hour or three before goin' to the outhouse," he warned over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of the Forge.

 _Eugh. I did not need that disturbing image in my mind_.

With Gobber out of view, that left just him and Astrid. She was still here. Still staring at him with cold, dispassionate eyes. Why was she standing there? Why didn't she leave with the rest of the gang? Why was she staring at him? She almost never looked at him, let alone paid him any attention. Finding it hard to keep her piercing gaze, Hiccup's eyes wandered at everything around them except her. Scrambling to think of something to say, he just pointed after the blacksmith and grinned. "Heh. Gobber."

Astrid was biting her lower lip, as if she were making a tough decision. After a few more moments of awkward silence, the Viking girl gracefully twirled the axe in her hand and stepped towards Hiccup, extending her weapon to the boy, blade out.

Hiccup suddenly remembered that angering Astrid, especially when she had her axe, was not a wise decision for one's survival. The double bladed axe was extended towards his chest threateningly. What was she doing? Was she going to attack him? "Um…uh…"

"I need my axe sharpened," she intoned.

Oh.

 _Oh_. Hiccup chided himself. Of course she needed her axe sharpened. Why else would she come to the Forge? "Oh, yeah. No problem!" he replied with a little too much gusto. "Of course. I'm great with axes."

Astrid quirked a brow. "Really?" she asked skeptically.

Hiccup realized how his statement could be interpreted. "Uh-that is-I mean-I'm great at fixing them is what I meant," he clarified hastily, offering his hands out. Astrid nodded and placed the axe handle in his grip. "Yep," he tried to sound confident as he ran his fingers along the blades. They were indeed dull. "Balancing them. Sharpening them. Refitting them with new blades. Whatever you need, I'm your man."

 _Oh Gods, I did not just say that_.

"I just need it sharpened." She looked out towards the west sea, where the sun was nearly disappearing from the horizon. It was getting late, and colder. And windier too, Hiccup noticed. "If Gobber wants to close the Forge early I can come back tomorrow."

"No, no! It's fine. Really. It won't take long." Hiccup made his way into the Forge, Astrid following behind him. Although the embers were beginning to die out, there was still just the right amount of residual heat to make the inside quite cozy. Hiccup set the axe on the table and, with both hands, spun the lever to get the grind stone at the appropriate speed. Once done, he took the axe and placed the blade against the stone. As he did so, he watched Astrid through his periphery. She was walking about the Forge, examining weapons and sketches along the wall. It was a little strange if he were honest. Astrid looked calm, almost thoughtful, as if her mind was far off elsewhere. It was contradictory to the fierce young warrior who was always doing something active. Figuring he should break the silence, he tried to think of something to say. "So…"

"Did you draw this?" she asked. She was referring to a sketch he had made of one of his modified net launcher ideas.

"Oh that? Yeah, that's just something I came up with one morning when I was bored. Nothing special," he shrugged. She was only seeing what the finished version of the system would look like. He had actually gone into great detail on the specifications required to build and utilize the weapon, but abandoned the idea after one stern look from Gobber. "Instead of nets it launches a bundle of flaming arrows in a wide area."

"Hmm." Astrid continued touring the Forge, finding interest in the tools and blades that lined the walls, many of which he had made. Every now and then she would stop to examine another one of his sketches.

One side of the axe blade sharpened, Hiccup rotated the weapon to finish the other side. He found Astrid's close examination of his drawings a little nerve-wracking. He never felt that way when others looked at his work. What was she thinking? Did she like them? Did she think they were stupid? Why was she showing an interest in anything from him?

Astrid must have caught a glimpse of his confused face, because her demeanor changed instantly as she shot him a fierce scowl. "What?!"

Hiccup's wide eyes darted around the room to see if she was addressing someone else. Nope, he had suddenly become the sole attention of her ire, for whatever reason. "N-nothing."

"Stop staring at me like that," She demanded.

Hiccup's face turned beat red. "Um...like what?"

Astrid folded her arms. "Like I'm going to hurt you. Stop it."

Hiccup was even more confused. Did Astrid think he was afraid of her? Well, he kind of was. She was Astrid Hofferson; anyone in their right mind would be a little afraid of her.

"O-okay," he replied sheepishly, trying to sound brave but failing miserably. The axe now sharp to the point of deadly, Hiccup took a rag from a nearby table and wiped off the residue. He walked to Astrid and held the weapon before her. "Um, I finished sharpening your axe."

Astrid stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "Hiccup, I need a favor."

It was strange to see Astrid ask for anything. It was even stranger that she used his name. His real name. Most didn't.

At the teen's confused expression, she continued. "I'll be turning sixteen soon." Hiccup nodded. He had just turned sixteen last week, and he knew Astrid's birth date was less than a month from his. It was a special year, signifying that one was old enough to start taking on more adult tasks. "I'll be starting dragon training soon."

"That's great." He would be starting soon too. He and Astrid would probably be in the same class together, or at least he hoped so. That is, if his father agreed to allow him to train.

"I have an axe I want to use during training. It's my mom's—well she gave it to me but it was her favorite axe. It was the one she used when she went through dragon training." Hiccup didn't dare interrupt her; this was the most she had spoken to him in years. Astrid continued, "The axe is really old and in bad shape. It's more of an heirloom now, that's why she gave it to me. But…" She looked around the Forge, as if making sure no one else was there. "Do you think you could repair it for me? It would make my mom happy."

Hiccup was stunned. Astrid wanted him to repair her mother's old axe for her? He was almost too shocked for words. He asked the first question that came to mind. "Why me? Why not Gobber?"

Astrid shrugged. "Everyone knows how great you are at metalworking. Gobber's alright, but he's too blunt. The axe is really old and I don't want to risk ruining it more."

Hiccup stood there, mouth agape. Astrid had just complimented him. _Astrid_ had just complimented _him_. She was looking at him, talking to him, and _complimenting_ his skills. She said others recognized his skills too. He wondered what strange, fantastic world he had trespassed into. Maybe Snotlout had actually punched him so hard that he had been knocked out, and this was a dream.

He must have been staring blankly at her for a while, because she crossed her arms and scowled. "Can you do it or not!?" She asked tersely

"I-ah-I-Yes! Yes. Yes I can do that. Fix your mother's old axe. No problem." He was going to restore that axe. He was going to make that axe the best, most perfect axe in all of Midgard. "I need to have a good look at it so I know what materials I need."

Astrid grabbed her axe from Hiccup's still outstretched hands. "I'll bring it tomorrow after supper?"

"Sure thing. I'll be here."

Astrid nodded, making her way to leave, but stopped just at the door frame. "Thanks," she said, and then ran off.

Hiccup's head was spinning. With an impossibly stupid grin on his face, he went to work closing the Forge.

* * *

The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, plunging Berk into darkness. With the sun went the heat, and the residents of the island clamored into their warm homes to escape the cold and rest for the night. Across the village families gave prayers to the Gods for, among other things, another day without a dragon raid, before finally allowing sleep to take them.

One boy, however, was still very much awake. After closing the Forge and finishing his nightly chores, Hiccup had returned to his home only to find the place empty and cold. This meant his father had been drinking heavily, and was likely still at the Great Hall. Acting on routine, he went out back to collect some wood and got a fire started, coaxing it until the gentle, warm embers brought the house to a cozy temperature. He then gathered some dried fruits in a bowl and poured fresh water in a mug, leaving it by his father's bedside.

He went upstairs to his room and packed some dried fruit and a piece of jerky in a satchel, along with his journal, a dagger, some bandages, a few of his sketches, and a change of clothes, just in case. Confident he had everything he needed, he hid the pack beneath his bed and crawled under the sheets.

He then waited. And waited and waited some more, until finally he heard the front door slam open. The wood creaked loudly as his father lumbered about downstairs. A few minutes passed until Hiccup heard what he was waiting for, the monstrous roar of his father's snoring. He quietly tiptoed downstairs to peek in his dad's room, relieved to find the much larger Haddock sprawled on his bed in an almost comical way, not even bothering to change or get under the sheets. His dad was passed out cold; the man was going to have one hell of a hangover. Quickly but quietly running upstairs, Hiccup retrieved his satchel from under his bed and then exited his home from the back.

Outside the night was clear, revealing millions of stars that sparkled across the black sky. The moon was nearing its full phase as it slowly rose higher into the night, forever chasing after the sun. Hiccup snuck between houses and alleys, carefully making his way to the docks. Most of the villagers were probably sleeping now, and the night sentries who kept watch for dragons were high in the cliffs, but he didn't want to push his luck getting caught, nor explain to his father why he was sneaking about.

He knew what he was doing was stupid. Every time he ventured out he risked getting stranded out to sea or, worse, getting caught by his dad. But he just couldn't help himself. He loved returning to the island cove, despite the danger. It was _his_ island, his own place that he could just be himself and not have to worry about the pressures of his life. His thoughts were clearer there; the place just seemed to inspire new ideas in him. And the island was close enough that he could be back before sunrise.

The day had started off badly, but ended with something he could before have only hoped for; a chance. A chance to prove himself to Astrid that he was more than a talking fishbone. That he wasn't _useless_. Hiccup wanted to do more than simply restore her axe to its former glory. He wanted to make it even better than before. He would do something special. Something that was so…Astrid. But he wasn't sure what that was yet. So he needed to think, and the best place to think was the island cove.

Hiccup surveyed the docks, making sure no one was around, then plopped his satchel in one of the many rowboats that lined the decks. He jumped in after it, and before long he was rowing himself out of the docks into the open water. The waves were growing choppy as the wind continued to pick up, though he wasn't worried; he had been through worse.

He could not have known of the incredible danger he was rowing into, until it was too late.


	2. Raging Storm

He was more than halfway to the island cove when he realized he had made a terrible mistake. The wind continued to grow stronger and ever more erratic, and he soon struggled to row against the chaotic, choppy water. Then the rain hit. First as a light drizzle, then a stinging downpour. The millions of stars that he used to navigate disappeared behind thick black clouds that had so drastically materialized. Even the moon was hidden, leaving him in utter darkness. Only by the brief, powerful flashes of lightning could he get a glimpse of anything. Thunder roared.

With dread, Hiccup realized he had unwittingly sailed into the heart of a storm. A very powerful one at that. It was a sailor's worse nightmare, even on a large ship, and he was drifting in a mere rowboat with hardly enough space for two people. Violent waves rocked his boat and threatened to topple it over, and it was all he could do to keep himself from being tossed overboard. At one point he had considered attempting to turn the boat around and head back to Berk, but the waves had grown so chaotic he doubted he could steer, much less navigate the water in darkness. His boat was quickly filling with water from the intense downpour, and he could only hope enough wouldn't accumulate to sink it. He had just finished tying the satchel around his waist with a piece of rope when a sudden lurch knocked both his oars into the angry sea. With increasing despair, Hiccup curled into himself and hung on for dear life. There was nothing else left to do; his fate was in the hands of the Gods now.

Given his history, the odds were not in his favor.

As he lay curled on the floorboard, hands over his head to shield from the rain, he cursed himself. He was stupid. Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_. Why did he always get himself in terrible situations? Why couldn't he have just called it a day and gone to bed? Why did he have to pick _this_ night of all nights to visit the island cove? Why did he ever have to go there at all?

In a stunning moment of clarity, he knew; he was running away from his problems.

It was easier to isolate himself in the wilderness than face his problems head-on, as a proper Viking would. Whether he was far out to sea or deep in the forest, being alone meant he didn't have to endure ridicule from other villagers. He didn't need to constantly look over his shoulder to avoid a beating from his cousin. And he never had to dread the shameful look on his father's face whenever he messed up, which happened to be a lot. It was a freeing feeling, even if it was cowardice.

And now he was probably going to die.

Hiccup clung to the floorboards with all his might. If he was screaming or crying he couldn't tell; the storm drowned everything out. Eventually the waves became less chaotic and more rhythmic, though at the expense of becoming much, much larger. His boat ascended and descended with the water as the rain continued to beat relentlessly. His stomach caught in his throat at the constant bobbing, and that, combined with his sheer terror, was simply too much for him. He vomited what little he had in his stomach, a foul mix of food and bile that sloshed with the seawater in the boat and drenched his clothing. Great. Not only was he stranded in a storm, but now he looked and smelled horrible. Things _really_ weren't going his way. Releasing one hand from its tight grip, he tried to swipe the puke away from his face. That was a mistake.

A sudden wave hit the rowboat, and the resulting force was enough to send one end lurching upward.

 _Wham!_

The floorboard slammed against his forehead with a sickening crunch, like a war-hammer striking against flesh and bone. The pain was staggering.

Hiccup screamed. He screamed louder than he had ever screamed before. For a brief moment he forgot about the storm. Forgot about Berk. Forgot about the fact that he was probably going to die. The pain was so overwhelming. No punch from Snotlout or accident from his own clumsiness could ever come close to the agony he felt now. Blood seeped from his wound, though he didn't dare free a hand to wipe it away; he at least had enough conscious of mind to maintain his grip on the boat. Hiccup lowered his body as close to the floorboard as possible. Through the flashes of lightning he saw how red the water in the boat had become.

Gods he was scared. He was going to die alone in the sea and no one would never know how or why.

Or care.

Hiccup clamped his eyes shut as he clung to the boat in a fierce grip. Everything seemed to be spinning as he fought to stay conscious. The splashes of seawater stung his head wound, which perhaps was a good thing, as the pain kept him from passing out. The harsh downpour never seized, though he was at least thankful that it was rain and not hail. If it had been early winter instead of late summer, he would have no doubt been pelted to death by falling ice; a truly gruesome death. Of course, the prospects of drowning didn't sound much better.

Hiccup wasn't sure how long he lay there. Minutes? Hours? He was becoming delirious. Every ounce of him was reaching far beyond the point of exhaustion. His body ached as he shivered uncontrollably either from coldness or blood loss. His muscles were cramping. And his head felt like it had been beaten with a forge hammer a thousand times over by Thor himself. He just wanted all of it to end.

How easy would it be to just let go and give up? To allow the storm to take him and end his agony? But despite the pain, he didn't dare loosen his hold; he knew, he was too much of a coward to die.

A particularly violent jerk rocked the boat, as if it had slammed into something hard, almost sending his whole body flailing forward. Suddenly, everything seemed to be a lot less chaotic, and it took a while for Hiccup to notice that he was no longer rising and falling with the waves as much. But this temporary relief was snuffed out with the dreadful realization that water was now rushing into the rowboat at an alarming rate. Very carefully, Hiccup used one hand to follow the flow of the rushing water, only to find a fist-sized hole along the floorboard.

"Oh no. Please Gods no."

He tried desperately to clog the hole with his hand, but it was a futile effort. Seawater continued to pour in as the boat sunk ever lower beneath the surface. Half of his body was now under water; the boat had just minutes left. The coldness of the sea sparked within him a sense of heightened awareness, bringing with it a new surge of pain. With his only lifeline now vanishing before him, he sat back in resignation of his fate. This was it. He was going to die.

But then, he saw something. A brief flash of lightning highlighted…something, a large silhouette perhaps, in the corner of his eye. Putting a hand above his brow to keep blood from entering his vision, he stared in that direction, waiting for…

Another flash, and…was that…yes! Yes it was! A new surge of emotion erupted in him; elation, relief, hope. The dark silhouette highlighted by lightning strikes was unmistakable. Trees, land, rocks, a beach. There was an island. There was an island!

By the flashes he could see many large rocks breaking above the surface of the water, including one very close to where he was sinking. That must have been what he had hit moments before. The island itself was perhaps forty or fifty feet ahead, a truly daunting swim given the ferocity of the water. And Hiccup was never a good swimmer either. But he didn't have much of a choice. The boat was sinking rapidly. If he stayed, he would drowned for sure. Of course, he could drowned trying to swim to the island too, but at least he had a chance. He needed to get to land. Land was safety.

Making sure the satchel around his waist was tight, Hiccup dove out of the sinking boat into the frigid water. He knew the waves were rough, but he did not expect it to toss him about as it did. Actually, it seemed the sea was more concerned with pulling him down than anything. With every ounce of his admittedly limited physical prowess, he heaved himself to stay above the surface, peddling ever-so slowly towards the island.

Wave after wave crashed down on him, plunging him beneath the surface. Every time, he had to struggle upwards in a mad dash for air. He had swallowed more seawater than should ever be in a person's body. His muscles ached. His eyes burned. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. And his head pounded mercilessly. He had become so disoriented; only by the flashes of lightning did he know he was going in the right direction. Gods, it was forty feet, but it may as well have been a hundred miles. But he kept going, despite the exhaustion, the pain, the near total collapse of his body. He was so close, he could feel it.

Just as it seemed his body was finally reaching its limits, as his arms and legs could no longer keep him above water and he began sinking, his feet hit something solid.

Land! He was touching land!

The realization spurred Hiccup to utilize the last vestige of energy he didn't know he had. With his remaining strength, he pushed himself forward and out of the tumultuous sea. Crawling on his hands and knees, he made his way up the wet sand, coughing up water as he gasped for air. He managed to get just beyond the range of the waves until exhaustion finally took him.

In the midst of the raging storm, Hiccup collapsed on the beach.

* * *

"Ugh…"

The first rays of light shone through the shutters of Stoick's window, hitting the large man at just the right spot to agitate his eyes and bring him to full wakefulness. Gods, what time was it? He was sure it still very early in the morning; he had conditioned his body to wake before dawn no matter how little sleep he got. So why was it so bright? Outside he could hear the howls of wind and…hammers? Faint yelling? Grunting, the man pried his head from his pillow, only to regret it instantly.

" _Dear Odin_."

Stoick placed his hands on his temples as he let out a mighty moan that filled the entirety of the Haddock Hall. He had drank himself to stupor again, and the Gods saw it fit to punish him as they would any man who engaged in excessive indulgence. His head pounded unrelentingly; he could hear every one of his heartbeats like thunder in his ears. His throat was bone dry, and his stomach rumbled angrily. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to tell the sun to piss off so he could go back to sleep, maybe forever. But the sun wouldn't obey his commands, and as Chief of Berk he had responsibilities to his people, regardless of how much pain he was in. So he pushed himself out of bed, cursing all the while. Cruel deities, the Gods were, to offer something so enticing and yet let the consequences be so severe.

He really needed to stop drinking so heavily.

The villagers knew to stay out of the Chief's purview when he was in such a way, not wanting to risk bringing forth his wrath. Stoick didn't like it; he didn't want his people to ever have to fear him. But more than that, he was afraid it was beginning to affect his leadership. With a clear head he was able to handle any situation no matter how dire or complex. But when he was hungover everything was tense, and he made decisions without thinking things through.

Stoick knew his increased drunkenness was starting to become a problem. Far too often he found himself waking to mornings just like this one; head-pounding, awful moodiness. During such times his dealing with others were curt, blunt, as he was easily agitated by the smallest of things. On more than a few occasions he had gotten in fist-fights with Gobber or Spitelout over simple disputes. Once he had broken Mildew's nose when the craggy old farmer questioned if he was really Hiccup's true father, although he still felt justified in doing so even after he was sober. Still, Stoick was not one to usually lose his composure. Well, unless he was dealing with his son.

Thoughts of Hiccup brought about a sharp pain of guilt, but he wasn't sure why. Did something happen last night between him and his son? Stoick grabbed a mug of water sitting by his bedside and gulped it down, enjoying the cooling sensation while he worked to clear his mind. Yes, he was sure he had had a dispute with Hiccup last night, but he couldn't quite remember what it was about.

Noticing a bowl of fruit on his cubby, Stoick grabbed a handful and munched down as he tried to recall the details of last night. The dry fruit helped little in his recollection as his teeth crunched the hard substance that only intensified his headache. To Stoick's dismay, he found remembering things after drinking to be a lot harder than it used to be. It was never much of an issue before. He drank, of course, as any Viking did—some good mead did plenty to lighten the troubles of such an arduous life. But he in no way ever considered himself to be an alcoholic. He was able to control himself when it was just him and Valka.

 _Oh Valka_. _Gods I miss you_.

Nearly twelve years, and Stoick still felt as sorrowful as ever when he would think of her. Too many long nights he spent wondering what he could have done differently to save her. If he was just a little faster, just a little stronger, she may still be here in his bed every morning. It was a dangerous mindset, he discovered, to rue on his past failures, especially his greatest failure of all. But he was a Viking, and so he learned to deal with his grief. Or at the very least not dwell on it.

Washing the last bit of fruit down with water, he sighed in defeat. In the end what did it matter the reason for his strife with Hiccup last night? He was always at odds with his son. No matter how much he tried to mend their relationship, nothing worked. In fact, things only seemed to get worse at his efforts.

He tried to take him fishing once, and he goes off hunting for trolls. He tried to teach him combat, and the boy nearly chops off his own leg. Hiccup is brilliant, Stoick knew, but he has the attention span of a sparrow. He has no discipline. His mind is on a thousand different things at once.

How was he supposed to turn a brilliant but unfocused mind into a great leader?

He pushed such thoughts away as best he could. Trying to figure out how to deal with his son was a mental headache he didn't need on top of his real, mead induced one. Stoick stood up and stretch his arms and back. His body felt stiff, but the movements helped alleviate his soreness. His clothes were ruffled and sticky due to his sweating last night. However, as washday was tomorrow he didn't feel the need to change yet. Eh. He was a man. And men tended to toil all day and smell. Well, that was the excuse he gave to Hiccup anyway when he insisted that villagers should wash daily. Come to think of it, that was the excuse he gave to Valka too.

Stoick took a whiff under his arm and winced back in revulsion. Okay, so maybe Hiccup had a point. Still, he was sure to be busy today. A bath could wait. He made his way to the living room, but stopped dead in his tracks when he stepped on something wet. Looking down, he could see that his very expensive carpet was soaked, as was much of the floor. Confused, Stoick followed the trail of muddied water across the room to the far wall, which had a fist-sized whole in it with splintered bits of wood sprawled around the area.

 _What in Midgard's realm?_

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Stoick nearly jumped at the frantic banging on his door.

"Stoick! Open the door. Get up will ya!"

 _Gobber? What was this about? A dragon raid? No. Dragons usually only attacked at night, and there were no alarm horns sounding off._

"Open up!" Gobber continued to bang frantically.

"Keep your skivvies on I'm coming," Stoick yelled, rushing to the door. He opened the door and was greeted by his longtime friend. Judging by his bloodshot eyes and messy hair Stoick guessed the blacksmith hadn't gotten much sleep.

"Where have ya been? It's a disaster Stoick. The village needs ya!" Gobber blurted, nearly out of breath.

"Disaster? What are you talking about?" Stoick stepped out of his home to observe the village. His heart sank. "Odin's beard."

It was immediately apparent that a storm swept through the island. A really big one. There was debris everywhere. Roofing, thatch, wood supplies, tools—pretty much anything that wasn't bolted to the ground—were spewed about the entire village. Homes were damaged, some missing roofs, doors, or even walls. Already people were beginning to make repairs, many looking dismayed, others looking downright dreadful. Stoick's frown deepened further when he glanced across the farmland on the hills. Dead birds and farm animals laid across open fields. Fences were ripped from their foundations, allowing what animals that survived to get lose and scatter. How many yaks, chickens, and swine had been lost? Worse, the crop fields looked badly damaged and uprooted. And the wind no doubt blew much of the fertilizer away. Summer was coming to an end and they needed to stock up on grain and other produce as much they could for winter. Would they need to start rationing now?

Down by the harbor everything was a mess; many boats were capsized on the beach or sunken in the water. Supplies and debris floated lazily across the muddied sea, creating obstacles that would keep many ships from leaving or entering. The resources and labor needed to clean this up would be immense, not to mention the many travelers and merchants that would now be temporary residents on the island for some time.

And just to show how spiteful they could be, the Gods saw it fit to wreck many of Berk's dragon defenses as well. Stoick immediately spotted two catapults that would need serious repair and another that may need to be scrapped altogether. What if a dragon raid occurred tonight? They would be almost defenseless. It was a total disaster.

And he, the Chief of Berk, had slept through it all.

Stoick's disbelief turned into deep frustration, bordering on rage, mostly at himself. He had slept through one of the worst storms in recent history. How? It didn't matter what time of night it was or how tired he felt, whenever a dragon raid occurred he was up, alert, and rushing out for blood in minutes. So how could he have slept through a storm of this magnitude?

"Stoick?"

Of course, he knew. And that enraged him more. What if instead of a storm, a dragon raid had occurred? Any death would have been on _his_ hands. Damn. Why did he drink so much last night? He was usually careful in pushing his limits.

Again, he knew the answer. Hiccup. Although Stoick still struggled to remember what happened exactly, he knew that he had opened yet another fissure in his relationship with his son. He knew this because when something was _really_ bothering him he tended to drink, a lot. He loved his son. He really did. But if only the boy could just…listen.

No, he stopped himself in that thought. His own inebriations was not Hiccup's fault. Stoick would not go there. Even if Hiccup was the reason, he was not the blame. It was because of his own failures as a father to connect with this son that caused these problems. He knew that. And now the village was starting to pay for it.

But he had to put that aside for latter. Right now the villagers needed him. He was a Chief first.

"Why in hel's realm didn't anyone try to wake me?" Stoick grumbled as he started making his way to the village square.

"Passed out all night, were ya?" Gobber asked, hobbling next to Stoick. After no reply, he answered, "The storm came so fast…by tha time we figured how bad it was, it was too dangerous to go outside."

Stoick saw Spitelout talking to Mulch in the village square. As they made their way down to meet him, Gobber continued, "Normally we get some warning and time to prepare. But not this time. It's a mess."

Stoick asked the most important question first. "Any casualties?"

"Plenty will be injured I'm sure. Don't know 'bout any dead. I came straight to ya as soon as it was safe ta come out."

Upon noticing the pair approaching the square, Spitelout waved Mulch off to greet Stoick. Arms crossed, he wore the kind of grim expression he normally held when delivering terrible news. "Chief."

"How bad?"

"Remember the great Snoggletog Raid a decade ago?"

Stoick nodded nervously. _That_ particular raid was one he'd rather wish to forget. About eleven years ago, in the early morning of Snoggletog, Berk was hit by one of the worst dragon raids in perhaps a century. Nearly five times the amount of dragons in a typical raid struck that night, killing a record number of warriors and hauling enough food to ensure extreme rationing among the entire tribe. Stoick lost two lifelong friends that night. Suffice to say, there were no celebrations the following day, only funerals and mourning. "That bad?"

"Maybe worse," Spitelout replied, "depending on how you look at it. Not as many deaths, but we lost a lot of our food stock. I have Gadson doing a survey of the farms as we speak. But by the looks of it we may have lost over a third of our crops. Maybe a quarter of our livestock."

Stoick sighed, rubbing his temple in a vain effort to lessen his headache. This was grim indeed. Berk was already behind in its food stores for the winter. If what Spitelout said was true, then he would need to take desperate measures to ensure the village's survival in the months ahead. That meant he would probably need to reach out to the tribes of Hopeless and Freezing for support. And the other matter…

"How many dead Spitelout, and who?"

"So far? We know of at least six. Mulch was just telling me of three bodies found washed up on the beach. Not any of ours. Traders from one of the capsized ships to be sure. Unfortunately a young man from the Forsten clan was hit by debris when he ran out to try and save the family sheep. Knew the fellow. Strong, but a little dim. Of marrying age too. A pity."

Spitelout sighed before continuing, "The Hark clan took a heavy blow. One of the walls of their Hall collapsed, killing Pine's wife and son. Of course, this is only what we know of so far."

Stoick shook his head. It seemed like only yesterday that he had held Pine's son in his hands the day after he was born. Throughout the five years of the kid's far too short life Hiccup had often kept company with little Reeve when he and the other men were out hunting for the Dragon's Nest. Stoick didn't want Hiccup left unintended, so he made sure Pine's wife Dagmar took care of him when he was gone.

This will really upset Hiccup. Stoick had done his best to teach his son that death was a part of a life, and a regular occurrence for Vikings. But still, losing someone to whom you are rather close to is never easy to endure, as Stoick knew all too well.

He should really go check up on Hiccup. Was he still sleeping? Or had he gone to the Forge when the storm cleared? Probably the latter, he was always incessant in helping his tribe. Stoick decided to take it upon himself to break the news to Hiccup first. And maybe ask for forgiveness for last night, if he could remember what in hel's realm happened that was making him feel so guilty.

But as with many things concerning his son, that would have to wait. He was a Chief first.

"Alright. Inform the Council we'll be convening in the Great Hall by noon. Until then, I want a rundown on our crop and food situation, and a detailed report on structure damage and repair estimates. Make sure Gothi and the healers have everything they need to treat the wounded, and recruit the foreign traders to help clean the docks. The harbor is a priority. We can't fish or trade with other tribes until the harbor is cleared."

"And what of the dead?" asked Gobber.

"We'll have a mass funeral tomorrow morning."

"Stoick, are we gonna ask for aid from our allied tribes?" Spitelout asked.

"I don't know yet. We'll make a decision at the meeting."

"If we do we need to be careful," Spitelout warned.

Of course Stoick knew this. If word got out around the greater Archipelago just how bad Berk had been hit, some of their rival tribes might take it upon themselves to try to conquer Berk if they thought they had the chance. They _needed_ aid from their allies, but they had to be smart about how they went about getting it. "I know Spitelout," Stoick replied. "We'll work something out in the Council meeting."

"Fine. Oh, and Gobber," Spitelout finally turned his attention to the blacksmith, folding his arms in displeasure. "I expect a replacement mace of equal or greater quality for my son, free of charge."

Gobber merely grunted in response.

"And an apology," Spitelout added.

"I can only promise ya one of those things," Gobber said adamantly.

"Hmm, we'll see about that," Spitelout said as turned towards the docks.

As Spitelout walked away Stoick gave Gobber a bewildered look. "What was that about?"

"Just standin' up fer a good friend is all. The Gods know nobody else will," he spat bitterly. "Never mind, let's survey the village." Without waiting for a response Gobber started hobbling off.

Stoick quirked a brow. Well, something happened to piss Gobber off. Though curious, he decided to drop the matter as he followed after his old friend. It wasn't his dispute. And looking at the disaster around him, there were far more pressing matters to worry about. His friend could wait.

He was a Chief first.

* * *

Astrid's arms were growing sore. Actually they felt like they were about to fall off if she was being honest with herself. She had been at it for hours, hacking away at trees and logs to create enough lumber to patch up the many holes and leaks of the Hofferson Hall. And before that, she assisted the healers in lugging their ridiculous amount of supplies to the Great Hall to help the wounded. And before that, she was recruited to help clean up the debris around the harbor, which wouldn't have been so bad if she didn't have to spend half her time brushing off Snotlout's pathetic attempts at 'wooing' (a few well-placed punches put an end to that). Now she was chopping wood to help increase Berk's lumber supply, which as long as she was not at the harbor was fine with her.

Damn it all. Snotlout's obnoxiousness she could handle, but what she found there, and had to do…

This shouldn't be affecting her. She was a Hofferson. She was supposed to be fearless. She was a _Viking_.

And yet her stomach churned when she would think about it. Stupid storm. Moving dead bodies around was not how she intended to spend her day.

She had planned her day out the night before as she always did—a rigorous schedule was necessary for any warrior to stay in top condition. Wake up, run laps around the village, practice with her axe, more running, eat, do her chores, more training, eat again, hang out with 'the gang' (only for a little while, she was a warrior-in-training, not a child), and more training.

And then she would go to the Forge to meet Hiccup. He was going to restore her mother's axe that she intended to use when Dragon Training started, just as her mother had. If there was anyone who could do it, Hiccup could. The Chief-to-be was brilliant when it came to metal working, probably better than Gobber (she would never tell _him_ that, lest she never get her axe sharpened again). Well, that was probably out of the question now, at least for a while. Hiccup would probably be way too busy to worry about her mother's axe. She wondered how he was coping with the recovery. If she stopped by the Forge today, maybe she would ask.

She hadn't really hung around him since they were kids. Back then, he wasn't 'Hiccup the Useless'. He was just Hiccup, the auburn-haired, green-eyed boy who happened to be the son of the Chief. He was different from all the other kids, she remembered. But was that really a bad thing?

Hiccup was…he was…

…Odd. That's for sure. Most kids grew up playing or pretending to be warriors. Hiccup spent his time reading books. Or building complicated contraptions. Or writing and drawing; he didn't go anywhere without a journal or two in hand. What the hell was in those journals anyway? She remembered one time Snotlout tried to snatch one out of Hiccup's hand, only to be met with a Forge shovel to the face, breaking the brute's nose. Though it brought her glee to see Snotlout in pain, it was also the first time she had ever seen Hiccup red with rage. Whatever was in those journals, he didn't want anyone to see it.

It was weird seeing Hiccup like that. Ever since she could remember, Hiccup was always so nice; a naïve boy who was always willing to lend a hand (even if it was unwanted). Though she would never admit it to Ruffnut, she liked that about him. With all the crap that he endured from Snotlout, it never seemed to bring him down. In fact, he was the opposite of his cousin in just about every way. She liked that about him too.

He was a runt by Berk's standards, though he was getting taller. He probably surpassed her in height now, actually (not that she was keeping track). No one would ever call Hiccup muscular, but he was growing leaner, and dare she say, more toned, probably thanks to all those hours striking metal in the Forge (not that she was noticing). She just happened to walk by the Forge one day when Hiccup was lugging in ore with his shirt off. Not that she cared.

She wondered what Hiccup was doing right now. Making things worse, probably. Isn't that what everyone said? Hiccup always made things worse?

She hoped he was okay. After all, who else was going to fix her axe?

Astrid was bringing her axe down mid-strike when someone shouted at her.

"Hey Astrid!"

"Whoa!" Astrid, surprised, misplaced her strike as it was coming down, hitting the log at a bad angle. A metallic cling rang through the air as a piece of the axe blade chipped off. Infuriated, she yanked the axe out of the wood and held it at the pudgy teen that had somehow snuck up behind her.

"Don't creep up on me like that!"

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean…don't hit me!" Fishlegs pleaded.

Astrid rolled her eyes, lowering her axe from the hysterical teen. "Now I have to get this fixed," she said glumly. Fishlegs was nervously swirling his fingers, as he always did when he was about to deliver unfortunate news. "What's wrong Fishlegs? Did someone you know get hurt?"

"Um no. I mean yes. But everyone's okay. It's just, well—"

She could have sworn the teen was about to go teary-eyed. This must be important. "Out with it Fishlegs."

Fishlegs exhaled deeply. "Okay, I'm worried about Nanna. I've been searching all day but I can't find her." Fishlegs gulped. "W-what if…you know…"

 _Oh you've got to be joking._

"Ugh." Astrid turned on her heels, walking away from the forest edge, leaving the stuttering teen in his place. She didn't have time for this.

Fishlegs ran after her. "Wait! Astrid this is important. She's _family_!" he yelled, stressing the word.

Astrid didn't bother to turn back. "No Fishlegs. She's a _sheep_. Good for wool and food."

Fishlegs audibly gasped. "You _know_ Nanna is not for eating!" Catching up to the blond Viking, he asked, "Where are you going?"

"The Great Hall. I haven't eaten all day."

"I'll go with you, I'm starving." The journey to the Hall took longer than it should have because off all the debris and rebuilding blocking up the paths. Astrid rubbed her forearms to keep them warm against a familiar setting chill. It was getting late; the sun was just beginning to set.

"Hey Astrid, you'll keep a look out for Nanna right? She's different from other sheep because her left ear is slightly smaller than her right and her wool—"

Astrid and Fishlegs stopped abruptly as they entered the Hall, shocked to see a large crowd gathered around _The Table_.

This was unusual. Maybe everyone was waiting for news from the Chief? But the Council meeting ended a long time ago, and everyone had already been given tasks for the recovery. She and Fishlegs exchanged uneasy glances. Unexpected public gatherings like this only occurred when something bad happened, as if Berk didn't get enough of that today. Through the masses of bodies she saw Stoick and Spitelout who seemed to be giving orders. Stoick in particular appeared to be very concerned. Others were passing around torches and pack supplies. To Astrid, it looked like they were getting ready for a hunting party. She gave a questioning look to Fishlegs who shrugged in response. Moving forward, she heard whispers and murmurs as she pushed her way through the crowd.

" _No, no one's seen him since last night_."

" _They already checked. He ain't at the Forge_."

" _In the Forest? Why would he go there_?"

" _You know how the boy is. He's strange_."

" _Maybe the storm got him_?"

" _Then where's his body_?"

A sickening sensation swirled in Astrid's stomach. What boy? Who were they talking about? She had the dreadful feeling that she already knew.

"Astrid, over here!" she heard someone say through the voices. To her left Snotlout and the twins were sitting at a table by the edge of the crowd. Snotlout was the last person she wanted to see right now, but she conceded that when something important happened he was usually the first to know, courtesy of who his father was. Reluctantly she made her way to meet them, Fishlegs following in toe.

"Have you heard the great news?" Snotlout asked cheerily, waving a mug around. Even from a distance the stench of alcohol assaulted her senses. Some of their tribesman died today, who the hell would be joyful at a time like this?

Snotlout of course. He only cared about himself. Astrid scowled at him. "No, but I'm sure you'll be happy to tell me."

"I'm going to be the next Chief! I mean, I already _knew_ that, but this just makes it official. With Hiccup gone you and I will—"

"What are you blabbering about?" Astrid demanded. "What happened?" Hiccup gone? Did he…

"They're saying Hiccup is missing," Ruffnut answered.

"Yeah but he's probably dead," Snotlout reassured everyone. "No one could have survived that storm while outside."

"Which sucks," Tuffnut sulked. "I _really_ wanted to see that death match for the Chieftainship."

Snotlout cocked his shoulder. "Eh, I would have won anyway."

Astrid shook her head incredulously. "How do you know he was out during the storm? Maybe he just went into the woods today. You know he does that a lot." By group's confused expression, clearly they didn't.

"Na-uh, he's definitely dead," Snotlout affirmed. "I was there when Gobber noticed Hiccup was missing. After searching around, all the adults went to his room and found pillows and clothes under his sheets." Snotlout shrugged at Astrid's quirked brow. "He wanted to make it look like he was still in bed, but the twerp actually snuck out last night. There were fresh tracks leading from the back of his house, and his stupid journals were missing. He never goes anywhere without them."

"That still doesn't mean—"

"One of those foreign idiots said they saw a thin teen sneaking towards the docks last night carrying a satchel. Come on Astrid, who else is thin like Hiccup?"

"I'm thin," Tuffnut said.

"Shut up, it was him." Snotlout declared. "He was out last night and now he's dead. Which means I'm the next Chief!"

 _Huh? Why was Hiccup sneaking around at night? Could he really be dead? Was this some kind of sick joke?_ She wouldn't put it past these three morons.

"Listen up!" Stoick boomed, capturing everyone's attention. "I know today has been trying for all of us. But I need every man I can spare for the search parties. It's getting late and the longer we wait, the harder it'll be to find him."

A few adults stepped forward, but not many. As Astrid surveyed the crowd, she noticed not a whole lot of people appeared to be sympathetic to the news.

Stoick wasn't having it. "This is your future Chief! Who else is with me!?"

That got more volunteers. Even if they didn't much care for Hiccup, they were loyal to Stoick to a fault. Assuredly, more and more men were stepping forward.

"Um, maybe we should help?" Fishlegs suggested.

"Why? Aren't you still looking for Nanna?" Tuffnut mocked.

"Isn't this more important?" He turned to Snotlout. "I mean, he is your cousin."

Astrid considered Ingerman's words. Should she help? Why should she even care anyway? She hasn't had anything to do with him for years. They may have been friends once but that was when they were little kids. She was a warrior. Hiccup wasn't. She was Astrid the Fearless. He was Hiccup the Useless. She wasn't supposed to associate with the weak. She wasn't supposed to hang around someone like him. She wasn't supposed to care.

So why did she feel ill inside?

"Whatever," Snotlout shrugged, taking a gulp of mead. "He's dead anyway. There's no way he survived that storm. It's a waste of time."

Snotlout's total lack of concern was starting to piss Astrid off more than she would like to admit. She wondered how he and Hiccup could ever possibly be related. Whatever his faults, Hiccup was a thousand times better than his jerk cousin. If Snotlout ever became Chief of Berk…

 _That_ was all the reason she needed.

"Come on Fishlegs. Let's help," she said, urging the larger teen to follow.

"Wait, I'm coming too," Ruffnut announced, to the surprise of Astrid and Fishlegs. "Hey, I'm bored," she explained, hopping off the table. "Might as well be doing something. Let's go Tuffnut."

"Aww, why me? I don't care what happens to Hiccup," the male twin whined, but getting up nonetheless.

"Because knucklehead, you know how I get these urges to just start punching things, and your stupid face is the best target!"

"You're pretty bad at persuasion."

"Also, we might find Hiccup's corpse!" she added, as if that would be totally awesome. Apparently her brother agreed.

"Now you're talking," Tuffnut said, matching his sister's disturbing grin.

Again Astrid's stomach lurched. She was used to the twins' vulgarity, but they were reminding her of the dead corpses she had moved just earlier in the day. Damn it, she was a warrior. She was a _Hofferson!_ She wasn't supposed to be affected by the sight of death. _But their faces. Twisted, blue, battered. Lifeless gray eyes._ It was horrid. Their last expressions was one of pure agony.

This should not be affecting her. But she couldn't stop thinking about it. What if she stumbled upon Hiccup's corpse? Nice, fragile, sweet Hiccup.

Idiot. What was he doing getting caught out in a storm?

"Astrid?" Fishlegs asked with concern, snapping her out of her thoughts. The twins were just staring at her blankly. "Is—"

"Nothing's wrong," she said confidently. "Let's go. It's getting late."

As the group traveled off Astrid heard Snotlout yelling after them. "Really? It's Hiccup guys! Who cares? He's dead!"

Astrid ignored him. She had seen too much death today, and twerp or no twerp she wasn't about to let the future Chief of Berk become another victim. She was a warrior, and warriors _protected_. Yes, she liked thinking of herself as a protector.

Besides, he had promised her a damn axe!


	3. Rude Awakening

It was mid-day, and the furry beast had spent much of the noon as it did most other days, plowing its sensitive snout through the forest floor in hopes of shoveling up a decent meal. Sweet tree roots, insects, and if it were lucky, plump juicy grubs were just a few of the snacks it was hoping to feast upon. The forest offered a plethora of widely available food, if one knew where to look, and the beast had just the right tool to sniff it out. From experience it knew that heavy rains brought out large grubs buried deep beneath the forest soil, and with the torrential downpour from the previous night it hoped that today would be particularly fruitful. Winter was fast approaching after all, and the beast knew it didn't have much time left to pack on its weight.

But in the midst of its daily search for food, the beast had detected a new scent, one that it had never quite smelled before. Curious, it brought its head high into the air, using its sensitive snout to determine where this new scent was coming from, as well as gauge the threat level. The copper aroma was so strong that the beast could practically taste it in its mouth. Undeniably blood. But what kind of blood? None it had ever smelled before.

Following its snout, the four legged mammal made its way out of the tree line and onto the sandy shore of the beach. While it preferred to spend most of its time in the forest, it would sometimes roam the shoreline in hopes of an easy meal from fish that had been left abandoned by the birds.

But this time it was not a fish that it came across, but instead a gangly looking creature laying on its back, limbs sprawled out in all four directions. Many birds were circling the thing, squawking rambunctiously as they flew lazily overhead. The beast had never seen an animal such as this before, and so approached the unmoving form with caution. The thing smelled unnatural and of something not from the island. It also looked dead, covered in blood as it was.

Was it dead? And more importantly, was it food? While it typically preferred insects to meat, the beast would in fact scarf down pretty much anything it could find, so long as it was edible. It was not a picky eater.

Using its snout, it prodded the thing's head, its powerful nostrils blowing the creature's furry top in every direction.

Hiccup's face twitched. Something smelled truly awful. He scrunched his nose at the offending stench, which inexplicably seemed to be assaulting him with powerful breaths. Gods, it smelled even worse than Snotlout's fish breath. And why the hel was his bed so hard and uneven?

And… were those seabirds he was hearing?

Something cold and wet prodded his cheek, and despite the heaviness of his eyelids, Hiccup managed to flutter them open. It took a moment for the blurriness to subside and for the world to come into focus. But when it did, he was greeted by quite an unexpected sight; large, bulbous eyes staring straight back at him, an enormous snout breathing hot, rancid breath into his face, and two vicious-looking husks that could probably shred his face to pieces.

"Ahh!"

The wild boar must have been just as startled as he was, because it bellowed a high-pitched squeal and bolted away, kicking up sand as it fled the scene. Hiccup, in a state of panic and confusion, tried to get up quickly, but was halted by sudden sharp pains in his abdomen, back, and neck.

Hiccup groaned as he fell back down. His face contorted in agony from his aching body, but he was too delirious to make sense of anything. His whole body felt stiff, as if he had lain in the same position for days. Any attempts at movement caused a new surge of pain to shoot though him. Even his breathing, labored and heavy, stung like a thousand tiny needles jabbing into his lungs. It was as if his insides were both inflamed and frozen at the same time.

All rational thoughts about where he was and why was there eluded him as he focused solely on calming his racing heartbeats. For a long while he simply lay unmoving, not quite asleep but not quite conscious either. Sea birds chirped noisily all around him

The sun was beating down directly above him, blindingly bright but offering little in warmth. Hiccup closed his eyes, too tired to do anything else. Too tired to even think. He lay immobile, tuning out the birds to background noise. He listened instead to the waves as they encroached and retreated from the shore. The harmonic joining of land and sea soothed his panicked mind and calmed his nerves. A long time passed as he did absolutely nothing. Aided by the gentle, rhythmic lull of the waves, he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

 _Waves crashed against Berk's ragged shores, creating a crescendo of sea mist that was picked up by the erratic winds and carried up far inland. Gray clouds rolled across the darkened sky, blocking out the sun and sending a chill throughout the island. Even at high noon it was still very cold, and the mist-fueled winds did little to help the matter. Up ahead seabirds flocked in uniformity, many of which finding perchance along the cliff edges that lined the beach. Between the clashes of waves one could just make out the low rumble of thunderstorms in the distance, sure to be residing over Berk in the evening. It was a dreary day. But Berk seemed to have a lot of those._

 _As he strode along the shore he spotted yet another one. It was his sixth one so far, and like the others he ran towards it with youthful enthusiasm._

" _Mom, look! I found another!"_

" _Not so far. Stay in sight," she called after him, though her words did little to slow him down._

" _We have to hurry," the four year-old yelled back. "Or it won't make it. Gothi said they die without water. Mom hurry!"_

 _His mother sprinted after him, and as such Hiccup ran even faster, laughing all the while. He loved playing this game of cat and mouse, testing how long he could avoid capture. Everyone said that his mom was the fastest runner on Berk, and he wanted to show her how fast he was too._

" _Hiccup, come back or I'll snatch you up feed you to a dragon!" She shouted out, giggling as she gave chase._

 _Hiccup grinned as he reached his destination. Stopping abruptly, he dropped unceremoniously on his knees, taking a moment to regain his breath. As he did so he examined the object of his new fascination._

 _The odd, five-limbed creature lay stiff and flat against the shore, far out of the reach of the waves. It was rapidly drying out, stranded as it was, but still retained a little bit of moisture. As he bent down for a closer look he saw that it was making small, almost imperceptible movements with its spike-shaped, yellow-coated limbs. Unlike most of the others he found today, this one was still alive._

 _Despite Gothi's warnings about some being poisonous he picked the creature up anyway, smiling as it slowly wrapped its pointy appendages around his palm like a giant's hand, or like his father's._

" _Gotcha!" Hiccup giggled as his mother snatched him from behind and started tickling his sides. She said, "And what dangerous creature has my adventurous little Viking caught today?"_

" _Look." Hiccup brought his hand up so she could see. The creature had now entirely engulfed his left hand._

" _A starfish," she stated._

 _Hiccup was examining it with fascination. It had apparently decided to turn his hand into a sucking toy, though he didn't mind. Like all starfish, its mouth was located at the center of its body. So weird._

" _I'm saving it," he proclaimed proudly. "Gothi said that if they get stranded with no water they die. She said they get dried up and shri…shi…um…"_

" _Shrivel?" his mother finished, kneeling down and hugging him from behind._

" _Yeah. Just like Gothi."_

 _His mother laughed boisterously. "Don't let the old prune hear you say that." She turned him around and held his face with both hands. "You like saving animals. Don't you Hiccup?" She was smiling, but when his face fell into an expression of shame she frowned._

" _Don't tell dad," he said quietly._

" _Why?" When all he gave her was a shrug in response, she grabbed his chin and forced him to look into her eyes. "Hiccup, tell mommy what happened?"_

 _After a moment of hesitancy, he said, "I told Snotty about saving the starfish and he laughed at me. He said they were weak and defenseless and deserved to die."_

" _Your cousin?"_

 _Hiccup's eyes narrowed in indignation. "But that's not true. Starfish are tough! They can grow back limbs. Gothi said so. Snotty is wrong!"_

" _Hiccup—"_

 _Hiccup turned away from her and headed towards the sea. The sky was turning darker, the wind stronger, and the air colder. Thunder in the horizon was growing louder by the second. When Hiccup's feet met the ascending waves of the near freezing water he paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and continued in until he was waist deep beneath the surface. The icy water sent shivering bolts throughout his entire body, and it suddenly become difficult for him to breathe normally. Being as gentle as possible, he lowered his left hand down to the sea bed, and watched with fascination as the starfish spontaneously became very active and lively. Becoming rejuvenated by the sea, the creature unfurled its death grip from Hiccup's palm, spreading its five limbs widely as the currents began to carry it back out to sea._

 _Satisfied that the starfish would be okay, Hiccup tread back up the beach to his mother's concerning gaze. As he left the water the cold winds sent a chill through his body, causing him to shiver. Mom wasted no time shrugging off her fur coat and draping it around him. She said, "Now tell me what's got you so upset. You never let your cousin's words bother you before."_

 _Hiccup stared at the ground guiltily. "Dad said I spend too much time drawing and listening to Gothi tell stories and that I need to be stronger like Snotty."_

" _He told you this?" There was a level of lethality to her tone._

" _He was talking to Uncle Lout. I heard from the window." Hiccup stared down at his feet, focusing too intently on kicking up a half buried rock from beneath the sand. Avoiding her gaze, he asked, "Does dad think I'm weak?"_

" _You are_ not _weak my brave Viking." When he turned his gaze downward she once again reached for his chin and tilted his head up. "You put the welfare of others ahead of your own. You put yourself at risk for the safety of others. And you try to solve problems with your mind instead of your muscles," she said while poking him in his stomach, causing him to giggle despite his mood. "These are the qualities of a strong leader. Your actions just now prove that."_

 _But Hiccup did not take heed in his mother's words. "It's just a starfish."_

" _It was a creature in need and you saved its life, even though it did not benefit you. Most others would not have done so. Remember what you did the for the Hofferson girl?"_

 _Of course he remembered. How could he forget? He had nearly died._

" _Dad was angry at me."_

" _He was not angry, he was just worried. He didn't want any harm to come to you." She rubbed his shoulder in a comforting way. "But he was also proud of you too."_

" _I messed up."_

" _You saved that girl's life."_

 _That was true. And his reward? She pushed him down in the mud the next day. Why did she do that? Girls were weird. Weirder than starfish._

 _Thunder echoed through the heavens and reverberated off the cliffs. The wind was becoming increasingly harsh. His mother tightened the furs around him, making sure she had his complete attention before she spoke again. "Hiccup, listen to me. Never forget who you are. And never let anyone else tell you what kind of person to be." She smiled. "You are my son."_

 _A great voice boomed across the shore. "Valka?!"_

 _Dad was heading their way in his usual enormous strides, closing the gap quickly despite the distance between them. "What are you still doing out? A storm's comin'. And where have you been all day? Hiccup was supposed to be training with his cousin in swordplay, not playing in the sand."_

 _She gave him a withering glare, and somehow, the mountain of a man suddenly looked very small under her harsh gaze. "We need to talk," she said. It was a demand, not a suggestion._

 _His father looked at mom, then at him, and he saw in his dad's eyes… disappointment? The Chief sagged his shoulders and sighed. "Aye, but not here. Let's go inside."_

 _The three headed away from the shore, Hiccup following dutifully, feeling very dejected, though he wasn't sure why. Raindrops started peppering the sand as the waves crashed evermore violently against the coast._

 _The seabirds were squawking loudly..._

* * *

The seabirds were squawking loudly.

Hiccup stirred awake. The cacophony of dozens of seabirds chirping all around him beat relentlessly in his ears. He lay there for a few minutes, staring up at the sky absentmindedly as he tried to gather his disjointed thoughts. He had a splitting headache. His body ached everywhere, and it hurt anytime he attempted to move. Where in hel's realm was he? What had happened? Why did he feel battered, beaten, and filthy? Why was he laying on a beach? Nothing made any sense.

Hiccup pushed against the coarse sand, propping himself up into a sitting position. With the sun no longer assaulting his eyes he could get a clear look at his surroundings. Immediately he began to panic. This… this wasn't Berk. The sea before him stretched on endlessly with not but a few jagged rocks breaking the surface near the shore. And the shore itself, he surveyed from left to right despite his straining neck, was straight and flat for as far as he could see. The golden sand was littered only by rocks, dead wood, and seaweed. Above him seabirds encircled the area, being as noisy and unwelcoming as only a member of their kind could manage.

This wasn't Berk. The sea was too calm. The waves were too gentle. The shore was too flat. Even the sand was wrong—golden instead of light-brown, and far less coarse. And the squawking birds chirping wildly against the otherwise amiable setting were different. Their beaks were a little too long. Their feathers a little too white. It was wrong. It was all wrong.

Where was he? And why did everything hurt so much? His body felt stiff and battered. His head pounded like a drum. His mind was foggy. And… Gods, was that dry blood on his hands and clothes?

Hiccup closed his eyes and started to think. His thoughts were disoriented and fractured, like he was trying to separate a dream from reality. He remember flashes of lightning. He remembered the roar of thunder reverberating through his core. He remembered overwhelming _fear_. But fear from what? Right now everything just felt so surreal.

Hiccup glanced down and noticed a short rope tied around his waist, with a satchel attached to the other end a few feet away from him. The satchel… that was his. He had made it himself after he learned how to sew from helping Mrs. Ingerman with her never ending seamstress duties. He used that satchel when he ventured into the woods or sailed out to sea. He had packed supplies into that satchel when he left for the island cove…

And that's when the memories came flooding in. Hiccup's eyes shot wide open in realization.

The island cove. The sea. The _storm_. It all came hurling back at him in unsettling clarity. The raging water. The near total darkness. The stinging downpour. The sinking boat. The island he somehow managed to drag himself onto.

He was shipwrecked.

He began to panic. What the in hel's realm was he going to do? As if being shipwreck wasn't bad enough, he had no clue where he was or how to get home. And who would go looking for him? No one on Berk even knew he left.

He involuntarily brought his hand to his pounding forehead, wincing from the light touch. Hiccup seethed through his teeth as the searing heat coursed through his head. Gods, it felt like his skull was on fire. He wasn't sure what that was supposed to feel like, but that's the only way he could describe it.

With some effort Hiccup managed to push himself to his feet. Staying up, however, proved to be the more difficult task. The world around him almost seemed to spin as he tried to focus his dazed mind. Despite the dizziness and nausea though, he managed to trudge to the sea on wobbly legs, dragging his satchel through the damp sand behind him.

Upon hitting the reach of the waves Hiccup plopped down onto his knees. His first order of business was to clean off the dried blood that caked his arms, face, and clothes. When he placed his hands into the seawater however, an unexpected stinging pain sent thrills through his arms, causing him to quickly yank his hands out. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Hiccup examined his hands more closely. His frowned deepened.

Both of his palms suffered from horrible lacerations. Large flaps of skin were barely hanging on or torn away completely, exposing blotches of the soft, sensitive red layer underneath. More distressing, his left hand clearly sustained more damaged then his right. How was he going to survive if his dominate hand was incapacitated? And despite being stained reddish-brown, he could see dozens of splinters large and small embedded into his palms. Had he really gripped the boat so severely that much of his skin had been scrapped to a pulp? Thinking back, he had once seen flesh this terribly mangled before, when he helped Raggs the butcher run meat through the grinder. His queasiness intensified.

Hiccup shook the image from his thoughts. First things first; he needed to get the splinters out.

Easier said than done, as it turned out. For the next hour or so Hiccup painstakingly plucked tiny fragments of wood that had needled its way into his skin. The process was slow, agonizing, and quite frustrating. The large splinters were easy enough, but the smaller ones he often had to dig out with his nails, causing even more ruptures and bleeding, if that were at all possible. Oftentimes he would succeed only in burrowing the shards deeper into his ravaged palms. After a long while Hiccup sighed in defeat, conceding that while he got most of the splinters out, his nails couldn't finish the job. Reluctantly, he pulled the satchel toward him and started digging for his dagger.

Untying the satchel and sorting through the contents proved to be quite difficult while limited to mostly using the back of his hands, but eventually he was able to fish out the small dagger he often kept on himself for emergencies. Using his teeth, Hiccup pulled off the sheath and carefully dropped it back into the satchel so the waves would not carry it off. He held the hilt of the blade in front of him with his right fingertips, careful not to let the weapon touch his sensitive palm. The dagger was small and simplistic, but surprisingly strong and versatile. And razor-sharp too. Not the most beautiful or brutish weapon by any means, but quite functional. He had forged it himself.

With an exasperated sigh, Hiccup leaned over the waves and began the dreaded but necessary process he knew had to be done. He spent the next half-hour in excruciating agony, using the blade to dig out the tiny shards of wood from underneath his ravaged skin. Blood dripped freely into the sea and he did not bother to quell the howlers of pain or the tears that ran freely down his face. It hurt—more than he could have imagined. And somehow the fact that it was all self-inflicted just made it even worse. But it had to be done.

After what seemed like an eternity he had finally managed to upend all of the splinters in his palms. But dishearteningly he knew he wasn't finished. Despite his trembling hands and the torment shooting up his arms, he quickly went to work cutting off the lose flaps of ripped skin hanging off his palms.

Mercifully, after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, the last piece of loose skin had been cut, leaving him panting in utter exhaustion. He ungraciously dropped the bloodied dagger back into the satchel, feeling relieved to finally be over with it. The water and sand beneath him was stained red with blood, and Hiccup wondered how much more he could lose before getting into serious risk of fainting. Holding his breath, he dunked his hands into the sea, which, along with washing away the blood, would also help keep his cuts from getting infected later. At least that's what he had read in a medical book he bought from Trader Johann anyway.

Surprisingly, the sea didn't sting as much as it did the first time. Whether it was because he was expecting it or because his palms had become accustomed to the pain, he nonetheless welcomed the relief regardless. After drenching his hands several times, he fished out some wrappings from his satchel and carefully wrapped the fabric around his palms.

After a few minutes of testing the wrappings, Hiccup was pleased that his hands were still relatively useful after all was done. Now that the wounds were covered, gripping objects didn't hurt nearly as much and he still had a surprising amount of dexterity. Most importantly, his fingers were more or less unscathed from serious damage, which meant he shouldn't have too much difficulty in manipulating tools. Despite everything, it seemed his palms would likely heal just fine. Or at least he hoped.

That dreadful task finally taken care of, Hiccup went to work examining the rest of his body for injuries. He lightly brushed his fingertips across his forehead and was shocked to find an _enormous_ lump just above his left eyebrow. No wonder he had a persistent headache since he awoken. He had gotten plenty of bruises before but the size of this one was just ridiculous.

Although he had no way to see himself—the water much too murky to reflect his image—he could feel a deep gash across the large knot. Thankful that the bleeding had stopped, and assured that his skull was not fractured (although it sure felt like it), Hiccup went to task scrubbing his wound with seawater. Once rinsed, he wrapped a bandage around his head and scrubbed the rest of his face and arms clean.

Next he stripped himself bare, bundling his blood-soaked, puke-ridden clothes into the satchel and resuming his sea bath. Upon further examination of his naked form he was thankful that, besides his head and hands, he suffered relatively minor injuries—mostly cuts and bruises. Scrubbing off the blood that caked his skin took longer than he would have thought, but his persistence eventually paid off, and he reveled in feeling relatively clean again.

In the corner of his peripheral he caught a seabird swoop by and snatch a discarded flap of skin that he had cut from his palm, a sight Hiccup found so revolting that he had to clench his teeth to stop from puking his guts out. The thought of those annoying birds circling him, waiting to pick the flesh from his bones was both terrifying and sickening.

It also reminded him that he was hungry.

 _Just another thing to add to the list,_ he thought bitterly. He had some Jerky that he packed in his satchel but that would only last him a day. If he was going to survive, he needed to find food. And fresh water.

Feeling that he was dry enough, Hiccup dressed himself in the extra pair of clothing he had packed, a brown tunic that reached his thighs along with some simple leggings. Though still a little damp and stiff, which would probably cause serious rashes, at the very least they were clean.

More seabirds began to clamber around the bloody mess he had created and Hiccup decided it was finally time to move on. He did not want to witness birds feasting on his discarded flesh and knew that if he was to survive, he would need to find shelter fast. Gauging by the sun evening was fast approaching. He gathered up his satchel and decided for no particular reason to head left down the beach, leaving the dreadfully noisy seabirds behind. As he trudged through the uneven sand on wobbly legs, eyes half lidded in a sudden state of tiredness, his mind finally began to process the full extent of his misfortune.

"Oh man," he muttered under his breath

He was shipwrecked. He had no idea where he was or how to get home. He was pretty sure that he was still in Berk's territory; he doubted the storm could have drifted him _that_ far. But that still covered a vast area where the sea was concerned. He also had little food, only what he had packed in his satchel, and no water. He wasn't too worried about food. Anyone who lived on an island had to be at least somewhat competent in fishing, and Hiccup was better than most. Of more pressing concern was the need for fresh water. If he could not find a reliable source within a few days he would be as good as dead. The size of the island gave him hope, however. While he wasn't sure just how large it was, it was at least sufficient enough to have a forest that lined the beach, as well as large wild animals, evidenced by his abrupt awakening. There had to be fresh water somewhere. He just needed to find it.

Hiccup walked for hours, trying to focus on surveying the landscape for anything that might become useful later even as each step became more tiring than the last. On his way he pulled out a half piece of jerky and munched down on it eagerly, wishing desperately that he had some fresh water to wash it down with. The minuscule piece of sea-soaked meat tasted slightly foul, but it felt good to have food in his stomach regardless.

As he continued his long march into the evening he finally came across a different setting; a wall of steep, jagged cliffs that lined the beach much like that of Berk. Hopefully if it was anything like his home island it would have caves and overhangs too. For the first time Hiccup felt the closest thing to temporary relief since he woke up. The cliffs before him reached perhaps a hundred feet or so in the air; it would not only be the perfect spot for shelter but also give him a superb vantage point to survey the surrounding island. At that moment Hiccup made it his mission to climb the cliffs tomorrow. Perhaps he might recognize some land formations from his studies of Berkian maps, if he was lucky.

 _Heh. If he was lucky?_ Who was he kidding? He was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock. He was many things, but lucky was not one of them.

He walked along the cliff side until he found a small cave, if it could even be called that. The cavern was only about ten paces deep along the base of the cliff, but it was plenty of room for him and he was just thankful to have a roof over his head. He glance out at sea, taking note that the sun was almost in full retreat, casting stunning orange reflections over the water. Night was fast approaching and already the temperature was rapidly falling. Hiccup dropped his satchel in the cave and took off his shoes, which were still damp and beginning to chafe his feet, and then set out to collect wood for kindling. Thankfully there was plenty of dead beach wood to collect, and before long he had struck two limestone rocks together and got a fire started.

Hiccup spent the remaining few hours of the day doing laborious but necessary tasks to ensure his survival. He combed the beach collecting more wood so he would have plenty of fuel to keep the fire going. As he did so he also kept an eye out for any branch that could be crafted into a hunting spear. He found several that fit the description, and he dropped them off in the cave to work on later.

Next he returned to the sea to soak his bloody clothes in the water, then laid them out on large boulder and began scrubbing furiously with a cloth he had packed in his satchel. The puke was easy enough to rinse off but the blood had stained, and it took him over an hour to scrub it out. The process was long and laborious, but in the end he had managed to get all of the blood out. Once done, he laid his clothes and shoes by the fire to let them dry. Hiccup knew from experience that sea water was hardly the ideal cleaning solution. The water would evaporate but the salts would remain, causing the clothing to become stiff and create rashes. But he had little choice in the matter. Hopefully he would find a fresh water source to clean them properly soon.

At least the island had trees. Tomorrow the morning-due would materialize on the leaves and he could probably get a few sips worth of water out of it to satiate his thirst. It was only a short term solution though.

Thinking about fresh water made his mouth dry. Gods he was thirsty. His mind was running over a thousand different things concerning his current predicament, but above all else he just wanted a drink. Right now he felt like he could trade a limb for a single flask of water, and his chores for the evening didn't help in the matter. Hiccup was sweaty and exhausted, and he no doubt lost a lot of hydration during the day's toils.

Everything still felt surreal. Hiccup sat near the crackling fire thinking about all that had transpired. He wasn't sure if he should feel elated to be alive or angry at how stupid he was to put himself in such unnecessary risk. He had been so confident in his sailing abilities, having visited the island cove dozens of times. And even if some disaster struck, the cove was so close to Berk that he never worried. His home island was visible form the tiny landmass after all. It wasn't like he was trying to sail across an ocean.

It was supposed to be a short trip. Go to the cove, collect some of his tools, come up with a new axe design for Astrid, and then return home. But the Gods apparently had other ideas.

Astrid. He wondered what she was doing right now. If he knew the Viking girl's routine, and of course he did, she would be practicing axe throwing on some poor defenseless trees before turning in for the night, as she did every night before the sun disappeared completely. Most of the time she would practice by the forest outskirts near his house, and he would sometimes watch her from his window as she trained with the grace and skill of a Valkyrie. Hiccup liked to think that that wasn't creepy at all.

Nope. Definitely nothing creepy about spying on a teen girl build up sweat as she twisted, tumbled, and performed incredible acrobatic feats, displaying the capabilities of her lithe, flexible body and oh Gods he really was a creep.

Well, at least she never caught him staring. Hiccup figured that 'axe through skull' was not a good way to kick the bucket.

What about his father? And Gobber? Did they know that he was even missing yet? It wouldn't surprise him if they didn't. His relationship with his dad had grown so stilted and distant, sometimes days would pass without either of them saying a word to each other. Which, in a strange way, was perhaps a good thing. When his father wasn't acknowledging him it meant that he wasn't being scorned, that he hadn't done something that was seen as a failure in his dad's eyes. At least when he was being ignored he wasn't regarded with shame.

Gobber might have noticed. It wasn't unusual that Hiccup would skip a day or two at the forge, but he would usually give him a reason or excuse when he did so. The large blacksmith was more privy to people's emotions and intentions than he let on, and Gobber knew when his apprentice needed some time to himself. Hiccup was not one to just disappear from his forge duties without saying anything and Gobber would probably know that something was off.

If his father found out what he had done, what he had been doing, he would be furious. He would say that he was being irresponsible and neglecting his duties.

Not that any of it mattered if he couldn't get off this island.

Hiccup munched down the second half of his jerky, leaving him with just one more piece left for tomorrow. After that, he would need to rely on his own hunting skills to survive. As he sat in the now toasty cave with little else to do, he grabbed one of he sticks and began sharpening the end with his dagger. He wanted to have a ranged weapon to defend himself in case he came across a wild boar again. Or worse, something much larger and deadlier.

He wondered if there were any dragons on this island.

For some reason he laughed at the thought. As if his puny sharpened stick could fend off a dragon. If he came across one in the wild he would be as good as dead. He would need to be careful on his hunt for food and water tomorrow. As he continued to carve the stick his mind wondered off, as it usually did when he was doing banal tasks.

If he had the misfortune of facing off against a dragon, which one he would be prefer to fight?

The first to come to mind was obviously a Terrible Terror. They were as tiny as birds, but they were swift and deadly too. How would he be able to hit something that could run circles around even the most agile of Vikings? Plus they still breathed fire and had flesh-slicing claws and razor-sharp teeth. And they usually travelled in packs. One was bad enough but a whole flock of them? Hiccup remembered horror stories of the Great Terror Horde during his grandfather's reign. Literally hundreds upon hundreds of the little beasts swarmed Berk for two days, hauling away half of the islands livestock and killing dozens.

What about Deadly Nadders? The beautiful yet terrifying beasts breathed magnesium fire, the hottest of any fire known. So hot in fact that they could melt rocks and even some metals easily. Many a Viking have been incinerated to a heap of ashes from these deadly creatures. And if that wasn't enough, they were capable shooting poisonous spines at ferocious speeds towards a target with unerring accuracy. Even if the initial puncture didn't kill you, the venom ensured your ultimate demise. One of the most dangerous of dragons easily.

A Gronkel? The stout, muscular beasts may be slow, but their bodies were built like iron. They had the toughest dragon hide that even the strongest of warriors had trouble piercing. And if one managed to corner you it was game over. Gronkels could crush their enemies into a bloody paste.

Zipplebacks? Nightmares? Moldruffles? Whispering Deaths? All of these scenarios ended in his very grim and excruciating death. Perhaps he should start thinking of something else.

His thoughts eventually drifted back to Astrid. He thought of the way she tackled any problem with fierce determination. He thought of her undying loyalty to her tribe. The way she defeated Viking's twice her size in combat without a hitch. Hiccup thought of her appearance. Her spiked skirts and tight leggings. Her flowing golden bangs that hung across her left eye. The way she moved and flexed her body while training...

He felt a sudden tightening in his trousers. Ugh. No, that was _not_ a good alternative topic to think about.

Hiccup blew the loose wood chips off the tip of the spear. The weapon was crude but it was better than nothing. He contemplated crafting another one but decided it could wait for tomorrow. He was so exhausted; it was hard enough keeping his eyes open. Hiccup placed the spear against the cave wall and stoked the fire one last time. Despite his soreness he stretched as much as his injuries would allow before laying down, using his satchel as a pillow.

What he really should be thinking about is a way to get off this island. Living in an archipelago, it wasn't exactly unheard of for Vikings to get stranded or shipwrecked in the middle of nowhere. Gobber had told him plenty of tales (all highly imbued of course) about Vikings that survived against impossible odds, who built their own rafts and then hopped from one island to another until they found civilization. Hiccup knew many these stories were true, minus Gobber's exaggerations, but he also knew that they were the exceptional few among the majority that died from starvation, beast, or drowning at sea.

Some were lucky enough to drift upon an island inhabited by people. Others were lucky that a passing trader or fishing ship spotted them out in the sea. All of the tales of survival largely depended on luck. And as Hiccup noted earlier, he was anything but lucky.

It was a problem he needed to tackle tomorrow. He was too tired to think about it now. The night air was chilly but inside the cave was cozy warm. In minuets Hiccup fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

The air was quiet, and the water unusually calm. A welcomed relief after the torrential storm the night before. The moon shone brightly upon his ship, bathing the deck and sea in brilliant white light. Most of his crew were sleeping in their quarters below deck, but a few of his men lumbered about, performing various tasks to keep the hunter ship sailing smoothly through the night. The moon's light offered such great visibility to his workers that he had ordered all but a few torches to be put out to reduce his ship's profile as much as possible. A hunter needed to stay hidden after all.

A muffled roar drew his attention.

One of his crewmen kicked the metal cage and cursed. "Ugh. Damn devil! Yer lucky I ain't aloud to gut you yet."

The Captain hopped down from the wheel and approach the middle-aged man. The deck was littered with circular metal cages of all sizes, some occupied by dragons of various species while others lay empty. The cage his angry crewman was cursing at was currently filled with a very testy female Nightmare. Most Nightmares were short tempered by nature but this one was especially so. Normally the Captain didn't bother keeping Nightmares alive. They were simply too much of a hassle with their combative nature and insidious ability to light their entire bodies aflame. And they required a lot of meat to feed too. A dead Nightmare still brought huge profits to his business anyway. Their horns and teeth, popular for decorating armor and homes, were sold for good price in many of the archipelago's ports. Their hide was very strong and durable, and used as clothing for rich Viking families. So too were their scales, which many warriors attached to their armor believing it would bestow them the Nightmare's ferocity in battle.

The most valuable commodity, however, was the beasts' saliva. Monstrous Nightmare saliva was easily worth 20 gold pieces a jar. It was the only real reason to keep a captured Nightmare alive, as they could continually produced the valuable fuel source when agitated.

But the foul saliva was not the reason he was keeping the dangerous beast alive. This struggling female was special. She would soon lay her eggs.

Baby Nightmare scales, both colorful and malleable, were sold at a premium.

The beast narrowed her yellow reptilian eyes as he approached. There was a certain venom in the female's gaze, as if she understood that he was the one responsible for bringing her down. The dragon snorted in contempt, which was as much as she could do while her snout was bound tightly shut with metal chains.

"Is there a problem Finn?" He asked in an even tone.

The aging man bolted upright at the Captain's words. "No-no sir. Just tryin' to feed the beast is all." Finn was the newest crewman on the ship, having joined just a month ago. The middle-aged man was originally from the Freezing tribe, but abandon his former life when his home collapsed by dragon fire, killing his entire family. Filled with grief and a hunger for vengeance, he leaped at the opportunity to become a dragon hunter. He chuckled uncomfortably. "He-he. Devil nearly snapped my hand off."

One of the Captain's natural gifts was that he could command authority and respect, and instill fear, without raising his voice. He kneeled down by the cage to meet the beast eye to eye, his face only inches from hers. "Did you know that a Nightmare's bite is powerful enough to snap a man in two?" There was hatred in this beast's eyes. Had she not been restrained he had no doubt that she would bite his head off in an instant. "I've seen it before."

Finn shuffled uncomfortably. "Er, no sir. I had not heard."

"It happened to one of my crewmen about," he tapped his chin, "perhaps three winters ago. Like you he also was tasked with feeding a Nightmare." The Captain stood upright again, his impressive frame towering over the recruit. "Like you he got impatient and let his emotions get the best of him."

"Sir, I'm not—"

"After snapping him like a twig that Nightmare managed to escape. I lost a good profit that day." The Captain turned his attention back to the beast. "I'm sure you've heard about how I punish those who hurt my profits."

Finn wasn't sure what to say, or if he should say anything at all. Indeed, he had heard the stories of his Captain's brutality. For the most part he was a reasonable man, and even went out of his way to make great concessions for his crew. But if anyone stood in the way of the man's goals…

"That crewman was lucky that the dragon ended his life so quickly." He gave Finn a penetrating gaze. "I assure you my punishment would have been far more severe."

One of the spotters rang a bell, causing Finn to jump at the sudden noise. "Captain!" Another crewman called. "Spotted one left of the Stern!"

The Captain quickly headed for the spotter, much to the new recruit's relief. Jogging up to the man, he said, "Give me the spyglass. Let me see."

The spotter pointed towards the direction in the sky. "That direction, sir."

He adjusted the spyglass dial, roaming the cloudy sky, when… There!

His spirits rose in elation. There is was. It was difficult to spot given its pitch-black scales but he was able to discern its general outline by the moon's light. No one had ever seen one up close before, or at least done so and lived to tell the tale. But there were sightings, partial glimpses that gave him a pretty good idea as to its shape. It had black-as-night scales, bat-like wings, and was medium sized compared to other dragons.

He had been tracking this legendary beast for months. The creature was fast, nimble, and powerful. But even the most powerful of beasts needed to rest from time to time. The Captain moved the spyglass downward until he spotted a small island in his sights. He grinned.

The Night Fury was his.


	4. Loyalty

"I thought you were a master tracker," Tuffnut huffed, a grimace upon his face that spelled both frustration and exhaustion as he made wild, and unnecessary, slashes against the forest foliage with his seax. They had been searching for hours. Night had long fallen and the forest they were trekking in was lit only by the light of the bright moon.

Astrid kneeled down to examine if any bushes or twigs had been disturbed by a certain lanky boy that may have crossed here the night previous. Unfortunately she came up empty. No trace of Berk's heir had been found all night. It was as if he simply vanished.

"Anything?" asked Fishlegs, who looked just as put out as the twins, but with a hint of worry that had been steadily increasing as the night wore on.

Astrid sighed. "No. Nothing."

"Ugh, this is pointless." Ruffnut complained, rubbing her arms together to help warm herself from the freezing night chill. The action did not go unnoticed to the much stockier teen standing across from her.

"H-hey Ruff. You know if you're cold you can use my fur coat," Fishlegs offered hopefully, already shrugging it off and tossing it to her before she had a chance to reply.

Ruffnut gave Fishlegs an incredulous look, the same one she gave her brother when she suspected he was trying to trick her or play some practical joke at her expense. Was the oversized squeaky teen of all people mocking her now? "What, you think I can't handle a little cold?!"

Fishlegs frowned. "No, I was just—uff." Before he knew it he had a face full of fur, much to the amusement of the crazy teen's male counterpart, who cackled almost maniacally.

"Come on Astrid, this is pointless," Ruffnut reiterated. "We don't even know if the fishbone went into the forest. Maybe he got blown off a cliff."

"Yeah, or eaten by a dragon!" her brother chimed.

"Or struck by lightning!"

Astrid's frustration was mounting. The twins had spent most of the night either complaining or making bets on what horrific fashion Hiccup had died. And Fishlegs, though trying to help, was having a hard time trekking through the thick foliage, made all the more difficult with the low visibility of the night. She probably could have covered twice as much ground if she were on her own. The others were slowing her down.

"…or mauled by wolves."

"Will you two shut it?!" Astrid nearly yelled. "Every minute we spend arguing is another step closer to losing him."

"So?" Ruffnut crossed her arms.

"Yeah, so what if he's dead?" The Thorsten brother plopped down on a nearby log as he twirled his seax lazily through the air. "What are we even doing here? It's the middle of the night. We could be _sleeping_ right now."

"He's the son of the Chief," Astrid answered, hands on her hips. "We have a duty to Stoick and to our tribe." She turned to the large blond for support. "Right Fishlegs?"

"Well, they kinda have a point," Fishlegs answered as he donned his coat again. "Statistically speaking, the odds of finding Hiccup's cor… uh, finding Hiccup in a forest this vast is… not good."

"See!" Ruffnut exclaimed. "Waste. Of. Time."

"No one's holding you here Ruff," Astrid replied tersely, turning to examine more underbrush. "Just go back."

Ruffnut huffed. She did not like being dismissed like a little girl, _especially_ from 'Miss Perfect Hofferson'. A part of her wanted to challenge the uptight teen to a duel for the blatant disrespect, but the more rational part of her mind knew how _that_ would end up. She did not relish getting her ass handed to her on top of everything else from the day. "Whatever. Come on Tuff."

"Finally." The other teen hopped up from his log, sheathing his machete as he joined his sister's side. "Legs' you coming?"

Fishlegs' gaze darted between Astrid and the Thorsten twins uneasily. On the one hand, he wanted Hiccup to be found alive and in one piece. Unlike the others, he had never harbored any ill will against him, and certainly no reason to wish harm upon him. Fishlegs really didn't get all the resentment directed towards Berk's heir. Sure, the smaller teen may not have been good at swinging a sword, but neither was he. Yet he never suffered the same kind of scorn that his childhood friend faced on a routine basis. And yes, sometimes Hiccup caused the odd catastrophe or two, but again, so did the twins, _on purpose,_ and yet the village never held onto the same kind of animosity for the Thorsten siblings as they did for the heir, who was only trying to help. Everyone messed up now and again, but for some reason Hiccup's failures seemed to be amplified.

It was an unfortunate reality, because, Fishlegs admitted to himself, he rather liked the quirky and intelligent heir. In many ways Fishlegs felt that he could relate to Hiccup more than the rest of the gang of teens that he hung around. They both would rather avoid a violent conflict if unnecessary. They both were literate and well learned compared to other Vikings. And they both had an innate curiosity about how things worked and how such knowledge could be used to their advantage. However, despite this, Fishlegs knew that if he tried to rekindle his old friendship with the Chief's son then his reputation would take a serious hit. He stole a quick glance at the irate female Thorsten, the moon's light flickering off her light-blonde hair and highlighting her sharp, angular features.

He wasn't willing to risk it.

And there was the other fact that, all things considered, the twins were right; finding Hiccup in a forest this vast was extremely unlikely. And Fishlegs doubted that Hiccup's absents was merely a case of getting lost; the Berkian heir probably knew these woods better than anyone.

Plus, he was really, really tired. Perhaps they could resume search tomorrow, during the daylight. He addressed Astrid sorrowfully. "Hey, look Astrid, I know it's our duty and all, but we might have better luck if we wait tomorrow after we've had some rest."

Astrid returned him a scowl. Not one of anger, but instead of disappointment. "If _you_ were the one missing," she fired disdainfully, "Hiccup wouldn't have given up on you."

And Fishlegs suddenly felt terrible. Because, he knew, she was one-hundred percent correct. "Astrid, I'm just being realistic—"

"You know what, it's fine, really," Astrid interrupted. She exhaled deeply. "I'll be faster on my own anyway."

Ruffnut snorted. "Hey, don't get all high-and-mighty on us Astrid!"

Fishlegs frowned. Clearly the lack of sleep was making the Viking girl quite testy. Ruffnut went on.

"I know why you're doing this! You can fool these two idiots but you can't fool me."

Astrid crossed her arms defensively. "What?"

"You're trying to act all honorable and duty bound and stuff but I know why you _really_ wanna find the fishbone."

Fishlegs quirked a brow, observing the Hofferson teen and… what? Was she… blushing? His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. Astrid Fearless Hofferson does not blush.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't act all innocent!" Ruffnut continued. "You wanna find him, so you can suck up to Stoick and get all the glory for yourself!"

For a brief second, Fishlegs noticed with curiosity, Astrid did not seem upset at the accusation, but instead… relieved. Strange.

"Whatever you say Ruff." She turned around and started heading further into the forest, but a distant, feral growl, high above the canopy, stopped her.

Fishlegs and the twins heard it too. They all looked up, trying to gaze past the open areas of the tree tops. One could just barely make out tiny shadows gliding across the cloudy night sky.

"That sounded like…"

The great horns blared off, echoing across the forest loudly and clearly even at such a great distance. All the teens looked at each other with wide, shocked eyes.

"Raid!" Astrid yelled, unslinging her axe and darting towards the village. "Come on!"

They all followed without question, their previous arguments forgotten. Fishlegs, not the most agile of Vikings by any means, huffed vigorously as he tried to keep up with the others. As he ran, his thoughts dwelled on the truly dire situation Berk found itself in. Not only was the raid occurring right after a natural catastrophe, leaving much of Berk's defenses either damaged or destroyed completely, but many of the warriors were currently scattered throughout the island, looking for Berk's missing heir. And the village's food supply was already so low, there wasn't much they could afford to lose.

The dragons couldn't have come at a worse possible time.

* * *

By the time Stoick got back to the village, multiple buildings were already on fire. The people of Berk had put up an admirable resistance since his absence, but with many of Berk's best dragon killers still in the woods, and with the defenses in their current sorry state, it was mostly a futile effort. The dragons clearly had the upper hand, and were ransacking much of the village's already very limited food stock pretty much unencumbered. His heart sank. At this rate many of the villagers may very well starve to death, even _before_ the coming of winter.

And… and his son. He had hoped that with much of the island's help he would be able to track Hiccup down quickly. His son was alive. He _had_ to be. Stoick refused to entertain any other possibility. Perhaps Hiccup was trying to help with the recovery, and inadvertently got lost in the woods. But then, why did he stuff his pillows beneath his sheets, as if to hide his actions? And there was that testimony from the foreigner, the night previous. Plus, Hiccup was just too smart to get lost in the forest. His son was an excellent navigator, and Stoick was sure he knew these woods like the back if his hands.

Maybe this was some kind of sick prank? A practical joke Hiccup thought would be fun to pull on the village? But Stoick dismissed that idea as well. Hiccup may have an affinity for sarcastic quips, but he would never do such a thing. He was a Haddock! Not some crazed Thorsten. The village always came first.

As the night wore on though, Stoick became increasingly distressed. And, he began to have doubts. What if…

His gut wrenched. No. No, no, _no_.

He had to put all of this aside for now though. He was the Chief; he didn't have time to wallow in his doubts, even for his own son. As he rushed to the village square he spotted a gronkle carrying off another sheep. Unslinging his axe, the Chief lined up a shot mid-stride and threw the weapon with all his might. Stoick's aim was always exceptional, and this time was no different. The axe flew straight into its target, impaling deep into the gronkle's skull. The dragon was killed instantly, and fell back to the ground 30 feet below. Unfortunately so too did the sheep, landing on the hard dirt with a sickening crunch.

Hoark was near the village center directing the defense as best he could, Stoick running towards him as fast as his feet could carry. On his way, he shouted at the determined but unfocused Vikings passing by to 'leave the homes be' and 'form barriers around the stock houses'. From the looks of their faces, the warriors didn't much like the idea of leaving their homes undefended, but they obeyed the Chief regardless. Their hesitance was understandable; it was their homes after all. But houses could be rebuilt, and the women and children were likely already safely secured in the Great Hall. If they lost too much of their food however, people could starve.

He had to dodge a few of the fire-breathing beasts before finally reaching his third-in-command. Hoark had just instructed one of the leaders of the catapult crew to re-adjust their angle of attack further to the east, where many of the dragons were hogging the sheep pens. Unfortunately only two of the catapults were in use, as the others were still in repair. He sighed in relief at seeing Stoick approach.

"Chief, the villagers are secured in the Great Hall, but we're losing a lot of resources. We—"

"Look out!" Stoick bellowed. A nadder flew wildly by, carrying a swine it had impaled with its hind claws. The two warriors were forced to dodge out of the way.

"Damn." Hoark covered an unseen cut bleeding underneath his bushy black beard. "We don't have the manpower to fight them all! If everyone wasn't out there looking for…"

A cold dead stare silenced Hoark immediately. Stoick stood tall and straight. "Gather the fighters we have and form a defensive front around the stock houses. That's the only thing that matters right now."

"Aye Sir," Hoark obeyed, but added, "What about our homes?"

"There's hardly any dragons here!" During most raids the dragons would normally go to wherever they could find food. But after the storm Stoick had ordered that all livestock be gathered in a few different locations to help with the recovery, and make them easier to protect. Perhaps the decision was paying off, as it seemed that the dragons were hardly interested in the residential area. In fact there were very few fires around them at all; the dragons focused almost all of their efforts on the fireproof stock houses. He could use this to Berks advantage.

"The dragons are only going after the animals. See?" He pointed to the locations where an exceptionally large number of the flying beasts were gathered. "They're all bottlenecked at a few places. It'll make it easier for us to kill'em in bulk. We'll round the archer teams together and fire synchronized shots in succession. Now go! Relay the orders."

"Aye Sir!"

Stoick watched Hoark go, then went to retrieve his axe, still imbedded in the gronkle. With a powerful tug, he yanked the weapon free from the dragon's skull, producing oozing blood and brain matter from the dead beast. He heard pathetic yelps a few paces away from the dragon's side. Ah, the sheep. Poor bastard survived the fall, and was flailing helplessly on the ground, but was undoubtedly injured beyond saving. It was a miracle the thing was even still alive. Stoick did the merciful thing and brought his axe down, ending the animal's suffering.

Across from the plaza other voices caught his attention. Many of the Berkian teens, led by the Hofferson girl, had gathered around the square with buckets of water, dousing out the flames as best they could to prevent more homes from burning. Another tug plucked at Stoick's heart. Even though Hiccup was not part of the fire prevention team—he had ordered Gobber to keep him indoors during the raids—the whole 'fire squad' concept was Hiccup's idea. The teens who were old enough to hold more responsibilities but had not yet gone through dragon training were part of the fire teams that went around Berk dousing flames during the raids. The concept had saved Berk a lot of property damage.

He unconsciously glanced at the Forge, empty and dark. With a heavy sigh, Stoick put his feelings behind him and marched to the closest stock house, where the archer line was beginning to form.

He did not allow himself to worry again that night, until every last dragon was driven out.

* * *

For much of Berk, the sun after the raid arrived far too early.

The sound of a hammer striking against wood woke her up, the vibrations reverberating through the walls of the Hofferson Hall and into her room. With an irritated moan, Astrid rubbed her eyes and forced herself awake, despite her aching body's protest. Light flickered through her open window in soft orange hues, signifying it was still very early in the morning.

Beyond tired didn't even approach what Astrid was feeling. She was at least thankful that the dragons were pushed out long before the sun breached the horizon, allowing her to get a few precious hours of sleep before the start of the next day. She knew she could have slept in; the other teens were going to, and her parents would allow it. But Astrid would refuse. Sure, she was tired as Hel, but warriors didn't always have the luxury of a good night's rest, even after a long day's work. If she couldn't handle a little sleep deprivation, how was she going to be tough enough to slay Nightmares and Nadders?

She stood up, reaching high for the thatch ceiling as she stretched out the many kinks in her stiff frame. Her morning stretch routine helped alieve some of her soreness, but she still felt like she had gotten crushed by a ten ton gronkle. By the gods she was exhausted. She had been awake for more than a full day and night, toiled endlessly during the recovery, and then spent her remaining strength looking for Hiccup and, finally, putting out fires around the village. Her stamina was thoroughly spent, and right now her straw bed seemed so very inviting.

Astrid ignored her body's plea and got dressed, put up her hair, and proceeded into her home's main room. She found her mother sweeping the floor while her father was repairing the front door, which had come unhinged from the storm. Immediately the scent of baked bread filled her nostrils, causing her stomach to growl rather obnoxiously. Ugh, when was the last time she ate? Astrid honestly couldn't remember. So it was no surprise that when her mother, Brunhilda Hofferson, offered her a piece of warm bread with yak cheese, she devoured it with little decorum.

Brunhilda chuckled. "Oh Astrid, you're so much like yer father," she said humorously.

Astrid tried to reply, but with her mouth stuffed full of the delicious food all that came out was unintelligible mumbles, much to her mother's amusement. Astrid scowled indignantly, offended that her mom often still treated her like a child. At this though, the older Hofferson only laughed harder.

Her mom went back to sweeping as Astrid sat at the table. Her initial appetite slightly satiated, she consumed the rest of her morning meal at a more leisurely pace, downing it with a glass of honey mead. The minor but very delicious breakfast gave the Viking teen a much needed energy boost. Her mom's cooking was superb. It was a trait that Astrid did not share.

"You were up all night dear," her mother began. "I'd have thought ye still be resting."

And yet, Astrid noticed, she had made her breakfast and left her a glass of honey mead on the table. Her mom knew her well.

"The village is a wreck mom," Astrid said between sips. "I can't just sleep around all day."

"Ha, that's my girl!" her father, Haldor Hofferson, shouted between hammer strikes. "Always thinking what's best for the tribe. Gulli told me how you took command of the fire teams. The village is proud of ya Astrid," her father beamed.

"Still," her mother said, "ya should take it easy today hun. No need to burn yourself out."

Astrid sighed. Why did her mom still treat her like a child? For goodness sake, she was almost a full-fledge warrior! It was only just a few more months until dragon training officially started, and Astrid felt like she had been training for it all her life. She was ready—more than ready. She would finish as the top warrior. She would be the _best_. She owed that much to her uncle Finn. She just hoped her mother's old axe would be ready before the training officially started, so she could present it to her family when she won. Astrid frowned. Oh, right. Hiccup.

Foolish Hiccup. Where the Hel was he? Astrid had not found a trace of him anywhere, and she was really good at tracking. How can someone just disappear like that?

"Any luck finding the Haddock boy, dear?" Her mom asked. Astrid met her concerned, knowing gaze.

"Uh-uh."

"Humph." Her father stopped his hammering to wipe the sweat away from his brow. "That boy was always such a nuisance, right Astrid."

"Y-yeah." Astrid agreed uneasily. Her dad never much cared for Hiccup, and was rather happy when she grew apart from the Chief's son. In fact, her father had a lot to do with why she stopped hanging around Hiccup altogether.

"We'll find him dear. He's as stubborn as his old man." Her mother smiled, staring blankly at the wall as if in deep recollection. "And he has his mother's intelligence. Wherever that boy is, he'll survive."

Astrid nodded. She couldn't remember too much about Valka, but she knew that Hiccup's mother and her mom were strong friends since childhood. Their mom's often got together to do chores while she and Hiccup played together. That was a very, very long time ago.

All this thinking of the past wasn't doing Astrid any good. With a sudden urge to do something active, she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and jumped up from her seat. Before she made it out of the house though, her mother addressed her.

"I mean it Astrid. Take it easy today."

"I'm just going for a jog mom. I'll be back soon."

A wordless nod from her mother, and Astrid was out the door.

It was a surprisingly beautiful day, if a little on the chill side. That is, of course, if one didn't take into account the massive heap of damaged rumble that was her village. The past few days had not treated Berk well. And while they were initially making good progress on the recovery, the dragon raid put everything into a temporary halt.

All told, the raid ended up being a relatively minor one. No one had died, and with the food being stored in centralized locations, not a too much had been snatched away from the dragons. Not that there was a whole lot to take in the first place.

Astrid ran her normal route, which took her through the village square and out through the farm fields. On the way she had to take several detours due to the cleanup and many dragon carcasses that littered the streets. Thankfully most of the dead dragons had already been dumped over the cliffs into the ocean, but there was still plenty that remained, which was unfortunate, because there were few things worse than the smell of rotting dragon meat.

She was nearing the edge of the fields, along the forest tree line, and was just about to turn around, when to the left of her vision she spotted a sheep roaming freely out of its barn shed. Odd. After the raid the village had gathered up all of animals and secured them in holding pens. How did this one manage to get out? Regardless, Astrid veered off her track. Best to return the sheep back to the barn before it stumbled into the forest and got lost.

When she approached, the docile animal brought its head up, dropping the bundle of grass it was chewing.

 _Baaaa._

"Hey buddy. How did you get out?"

 _Baaaa._

The female sheep had dark wool with a few brown spots in some areas, which was quite rare. And oddly enough, two differently sized ears, the left being slightly smaller than the right.

Wait.

"Nanna?"

The sheep's ears perked up. _Baaaa!_

Astrid smirked. "I guess Fishlegs was right. You _are_ lucky." She would tell the large teen of his favorite pet's survival when she next saw him. For now, she needed to secure Nanna back with the other animals. Tugging the sheep by the neck, she led the obedient animal back towards the barn shed. As soon as she rounded the corner she saw that the large front swing door was slightly cracked. Maybe someone forgot to close it? She was about to enter, until she heard voices from the inside.

"… _and with Hiccup gone, his…is assured,_ " someone whispered in a hushed tone. Astrid stopped dead in her tracks. The anonymous voice sounded vaguely familiar.

" _Don't give… assurances you aren't sure… can keep,_ " A much raspier voice responded. Astrid kneeled and inched closer to the entrance. She was having a hard time hearing. " _Stoick's as stubborn as… come. He won't just give up his… even with… runt dead. Not without force._ "

Huh? What were these two talking about?

" _I know how to deal with Stoick."_ The first voice said, sounding quite agitated. " _You just play your part. Plant the seeds of doubt."_

Nanna nudged her from behind.

 _Baaaa!_

Astrid shot up, glaring at the sheep. "No, Nanna! Shhh!" But it was too late. She heard movement from inside the barn shed. Quickly, the teen ran around the corner and hid behind some old farming equipment, just in time before the door swung open.

"Just a sheep," she heard a voice say. It definitely sounded familiar. Very high pithed in fact, could it be…

Astrid risked peeking around the corner, to find Berk's second-in-command, Spitelout Jorgenson, scowling at the discolored sheep. The large Viking grabbed Nanna by the neck and pushed her back in the barn. "Lock the sheep up before you go. We'll talk later." Spitelout turned the corner, barely giving Astrid enough time to retreat.

Her heart was pounding. She didn't know why she was hiding; it's not like she did anything wrong. But something about the whole situation just felt incredibly wrong. And her uncle Finn had always taught her to trust her gut.

When Spitelout passed her by, Astrid pressed herself behind the farming equipment as best she could and held her breath. Thankfully, the Jorgenson Patriarch was oblivious to her presence, passing by and heading back towards the village. Astrid sighed in relief, allowing herself to relax a little, until she heard more noises from the barn.

"Damn sheep!" the craggy voice admonished. "Get yer damn rear end… there." A few moments later, after some more ruckus, another man walked out, heading in the opposite direction of Spitelout. Astrid peeked again, and snorted in discuss at the retreating form. She only saw his backside, but she would recognize the smelly old farmer anywhere.

Mildew, what a true blight to Berk. Astrid honestly couldn't find one redeeming quality about the man. He was a crude, despicable excuse of a man who cared only for himself and somehow managed to get on everyone's nerves. She disliked him so much she even refused to eat his cabbages. Thankfully the old man's farm was far away from the village, so she didn't have to see him much.

After some time, when she was sure she wouldn't be seen, Astrid left the hiding spot and began her jog back to the village. She tried to make sense of what she had just heard, going over the limited patches of conversation over and over in her head.

She was honestly confused. What could Spitelout Jorgenson possibly want with Mildew? Maybe they were just talking business—Mildew was a farmer after all and food on Berk was growing scarce. But… why the whispering and secrecy? And they were talking behind Stoick's back. A warrior, especially one as high up as Spitelout, a _relative_ even, should never talk behind the back of the Chief.

And they seemed pretty certain that Hiccup was… gone.

Astrid's stomach twisted. When Hiccup was found she was going to string him up and beat him to a bloody pulp for making her worry so much.

Her uneasiness didn't lesson when she arrived back home. She was uncertain what she had witnessed and what she should do about it. And Astrid _hated_ being uncertain about anything. Should she tell Stoick? What if the whole ordeal ended up being totally innocent? Was _she_ the one who had did wrong here? Eavesdropping on the Jorgenson warrior? Too much uncertainty. Too much to think about. She decided to help her parents with repairs and chores to distract herself. Her dad was just happy to have an extra pair of hands, but her mom seemed to pick up on her unease, though thankfully she did not pry.

Later, Astrid decided that she would keep a closer watch for Spitelout and Mildew. She knew it wasn't her place, but her gut told her that whatever these two were planning, it couldn't be good.

* * *

The Chief had called for a village-wide meeting as dusk approached.

Not everyone had to attend of course. Sometimes these meetings were rather sparse; a discussion of things that, while important, were very mundane. But usually every household sent at least one person to the meeting so that their Hall would not be left out of the loop.

This time though, the Great Hall was packed. The villagers knew things weren't looking too good heading into winter. As soon as Astrid entered with her parents it was apparent that everyone was anxious. Berk's food supply was undoubtedly the biggest topic of discussion among the Vikings before the meeting started. But there were also concerns about the damaged harbor, trading with the other tribes, reconstruction, and of course the dragons.

It wasn't too long before Stoick shouted from _The Table_ , Spitelout and Gobber by his side, silencing everyone's bickering. "Everybody quiet down."

When the whispers finally dissipated Stoick continued. "I know many are concerned about our food stock for the winter. Unfortunately with the storm and raid striking us at once, our resources have become exceptionally depleted. Because of this the Council and I have agreed to send an envoy to our allied tribe of Freezing for aid and possibly to negotiate better trade deals that will help us through the winter."

Many seemed relieved at the news, but not all. "How can we be certain Freezing will help?" one of the Vikings asked.

"Freezing is still in our debt from several winters ago, when we offered them some of our warships to help repel piracy from around their shores," Stoick replied. "And the Chief of Freezing is a close friend of mine. He is an honorable man and _will_ help us. I'm sure of it."

"What about the raids?" another asked. "Our defenses are still in shambles." There were more murmurs of concern.

"We're reallocating labor from lower priority areas to assist in rebuilding the catapults, torches, and archer towers. We're also increasing our lumber output to help with the repairs. It shouldn't be more than a week or two to get everything up and running."

"As for the Harbor, the cleanup is progressing quicker than we thought. It should be fully functional soon. Once it is so we can start large scale fishing again."

Astrid looked around. Many Vikings were no longer looking nearly as antsy as they were when she entered.

"Now, for the other important matter," Stoick went on, looking suddenly depressed. "As you know, my son is still missing." Many villagers spared the Chief sympathetic looks. Indeed, not _everyone_ had a negative opinion of the Haddock son. However, Astrid saw that there were just as many who appeared indifferent or uncaring at the news. She glanced at her father and frowned when she noticed that he was among the latter group. A few moments later she felt a firm hand on her right shoulder, her mother giving her a comforting squeeze.

"We will not pull back our efforts to find Berk's heir," the Chief said. "Hiccup is a survivor. He's smart and cunning and we'll not rest until he is found."

Astrid was glad that no one was protesting.

"Now wait just a stinkin' minute!"

Oh, she assumed too soon.

Mildew weaseled his way through the crowd, pushing to the forefront of the table. He pointed his crooked cane at the Chief angrily. "You can't doom us all for the sake of one little runt, Stoick. Son or not! He already cost us enough food last night as it is."

The Chief no longer looked depressed; he now looked positively vicious. Stoick leaned forward. "You wanna run that by me again _Mildew_?"

"I'm only sayin' what needs to be said!" Mildew spat. "Cause of yer boy's incompetence most of our warriors were out lookin' for him when the beasts came! How much damage woulda bin' stopped had they all not been searchin' for the little runt?"

Dishearteningly, Astrid saw that some of the Vikings were starting to nod in agreement.

Mildew wasn't done though. "Smart and cunnin' you say? I think not! We all know Berk could do better."

Astrid clenched her fists. A commotion arose from the crowd, some shocked that anyone, even Mildew, would say such a thing. But some were also audibly supportive of the crusty old man's assertion.

"Enough!" Stoick bellowed. "Blaming my son for the dragons!? You truly are thick in the head!"

The old farmer ignored Stoick, continuing on his tirade. "And you want us wastin' our precious resources lookin' for him while we all starve?" Again, Mildew was getting considering looks from a number of villagers. He snorted in disgust. "That runt aint gonna lead nobody! Perhaps that storm was punishment from the Gods for havin' such a weak heir. Swept him away I bet they did. The Gods only favor the strong!"

Astrid swore she could see veins popping from Stoick's face. The Chief placed his hand on the hilt of his axe, perhaps to intimidate. Or maybe he planned on caving in the man's skull right there. Regardless, before he had a chance to draw it Spitelout spoke up.

"Shut your trap Mildew!" The Jorgenson barked across the tense room. "You got no respect for your Chief or his bloodline. Why I oughta cut out your tongue for such treasonous words!"

The Hofferson girl was surprised to see Spitelout of all people come to Hiccup's defense. She knew he had disdain for the Haddock boy just as much as his son did. And… wasn't he potentially conniving with Mildew early that day? Astrid narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Something definitely wasn't right.

Gobber chimed in as well. "Just say the word Stoick," the blacksmith said, patting his hammer attachment. "I'll teach tha' bastard some respect!"

"You gonna silence me for speakin' the truth will ya," Mildew said, unperturbed by the threats.

"Not another word out of you," the Chief roared menacingly. This time he did draw his axe, and promptly slammed it deep into the table near Mildew. The silence in the room was palpable, and for the first time, the cabbage farmer actually looked cowed. "You should be thankful, Mildew, that I allow all opinions during these meetings to be heard. Other Chiefs would have banished or gutted you already for your blatant disrespect."

"But I am the Chief," Stoick went on. "And I, along with the Council, make the final decisions around here. You are free to hate my decisions all you like, but you _will_ obey them. Anything else is tantamount to treason." He narrowed his eyes. "Do I make myself clear?"

Mildew crossed his arms. "Perfectly."

"Searching for Hiccup hardly requires much of the village's resources anyway," Spitelout said. "And even if it did, we would still keep looking. Hiccup is our blood, and we look after our own!"

At this many of the Vikings actually cheered, a slew of 'we're always with you', 'loyalty to the end', and 'we stand with you Chief' being tossed around the room.

No matter their opinions, Berkians were always, always loyal to their Chief. Astrid was heartened by the show of loyalty, until she remembered whose words they belonged to.

Stoick nodded to Spitelout, a silent thanks for having his back, to which the Jorgensen warrior acknowledged in kind. Mildew was fuming, but had a good mind not to say anything else; the crowd had so clearly turned against him. Well, most anyway. There were still some that seemed to be considering his words.

Spitelout and Mildew. They appeared to be enemies now, yet just this morning they were making secret plans together. Or at least, that's what it sounded like to Astrid.

She didn't trust them. Something wasn't right here, and although she didn't know what it was, she was determined to find out.


	5. Fate

The damn thing was clever.

Captain Ove had been following the beast all night. Instead of flying directly to the uninhabited island as he had expected, the legendary Night Fury had tried to lose them by flying through the thick sea stacks that rested some ways off the coast. He knew the creature was exhausted after so much flying; mighty the dragon may be, but otherworldly it was not. Like all creatures of Midgard, it needed to rest. More importantly, it needed fresh water, and therefore would be forced to land.

Tiring the beast had been Ove's strategy from the very beginning. He did not have any delusions of capturing the dragon at sea. Even if he somehow got close enough to it, the dragon's blurring speed would make it an impossible target to hit. No bola could be fast enough, no arrow precise enough, to strike a creature that processed the speed of lightning. Ove had to keep on the Fury's tail, giving it no chance to rest for any significant amount of time. Sure, it would simply fly away once his ship got close, and even attacked on a few rare occasions, but Ove never waived in his pursuit. In but a few days' time he would inevitably locate the Night Fury and the beast would once again be forced to flee. He had to weaken the dragon through unending exhaustion. Only then could he have a chance in capturing it.

And it seemed to be working. Three long summer months had passed as Captain Ove and his crew trailed after the beast night and day, from island to island, across the entirety of the archipelago, hoping to wear it down enough to make capturing it obtainable. At first the endeavor seemed hopeless; after the first few encounters, sometimes weeks went by before they spotted the elusive dragon again. And when they did get close, sometimes it would plunge through the nightly clouds and strike the ship unseen, with only a few seconds of that terrible demonic screech as warning.

Ove had lost six trappers to the beast already, almost all of them in the first month of pursuit. He learned very quickly that the tales of the Fury's power were not exaggerated. The first time the creature had attacked, it struck with such force that it blew an enormous hole through the deck, sending shrapnel flying everywhere. Unfortunately two of his workers were standing in the way, and Ove could only watch as limbs were ripped apart from the blast. It was a gruesome death, but at the very least a mercifully quick one. His ship barely made it to a nearby port for repairs.

But as the months passed and summer gave way to the beginnings of winter, it became clear that his strategy of wearing the creature down was steadily working. It was growing slower, weaker, as evidenced by the increased number of encounters that occurred. It no longer bothered trying to attack either, perhaps trying to preserve what energy it had left for prolonged flight during this non-stop chase across the seas.

And now the chase was coming to an end. Ove could feel it. But he was a patient man, and would not let his anticipation get the best of him.

Moments ago the black dragon had flown uncharacteristically low, skimming the dark sea in plain view of his ship before heading into the maze of sea stacks. The captain noted the odd behavior, acquitting it to fatigue; his constant pursuit had kept the dragon awake for days on end.

His ship was a flurry of activity. Men scurried about, preparing net launchers, bolas, and long-arrows in hopes of finally felling the beast once in for all. For many of the crewman this hunt had become personal; the dragon killed their shipmates after all.

"Get the launchers ready!" One particular crewman ordered, standing tall above the others. "Quickly chaps. That Night Fury's not gonna catch itself!"

Ove watched as the hectic crew scrambled to follow the man's commands. He was a muscular fellow, and tall too, standing a full head higher than most of the others, almost reaching Ove in height. His long black hair, brown eyes, broad shoulders, and strange accent betrayed what the captain guessed was of Gaelic origins, though the young lad never spoke much of his past. Not that Ove particularly cared. The man was a great dragon trapper, skillful in combat, and could command a crew. Beyond that, his past was of no consequence.

He was also a cocky, prideful bastard, though he at least had some modicum of competence to back it up. In truth, the Gaelic foreigner turned out to be very useful serving aboard his ship, and he quickly rose through the ranks to become his non-official right-hand man.

"Eret," Ove addressed in his distinctly calm manner. "Status?"

The brawny man turned to Ove with a nod. "Sir, the bolas are primed and ready to fire. Should we set sail into the rocks?"

Ove was about to do just that, but the more he thought about the situation, the more he became apprehensive. The Night Fury had exposed itself unnecessarily earlier, as if it wanted him to see where it was flying to. Something just didn't feel right. Instead, he ordered, "We'll head towards the stacks but not into them. Sail along the perimeter."

Eret slightly quirked a brow, but did not dare question the captain, less he end up like his predecessor. "Aye Sir," he answered and then went off to relay the order.

It took them just over an hour to reach the jutting sea stacks. By this time the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon, painting the sea in a familiar orange hue. Ove was glad for it, as the early morning light would provide his crew with much needed visibility. But with the gain of one advantage he lost another; the wind had died down with the sun's rise, reducing his ship's speed. It was an eerily calm morning, at great odds with the tension of the dragon trappers.

They spent the next hour lazily sailing along the stacks. Everyone onboard was trying to make as silent as possible, keeping an ear for any sign of the elusive beast. All trappers were at their stations, their thumbs just one flick away from launching a torrent of bolas, arrows, and various other trapping devices. Ove hopped down from the upper deck, taking careful, steady strides behind his men. Only his steady footsteps could be heard over the crashing of the waves below. He gazed into the sea stacks with determined eyes.

 _Somewhere in there, is the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. Somewhere in there, is my legacy._

Eret, always an impatient man, was beginning to grow restless with the quiet inaction. It was growing much too silent for his liking and a sense of dread was starting to overtake him. _What are we waiting for?_ _Aren't we gonna—_

He never got a chance to finish that thought. Without warning the black dragon came bursting out from behind one of the stacks, nosediving straight for the slow-moving ship at an alarming speed. The thing was moving so fast, it could hardly be described as little more than a black blur. That awful, dreadful whistling noise that was the signature death note of the Night Fury pierced through the chilly morning air and into the hearts of every man on the ship.

"Night Fury!"

"Get down!"

The demonic beast fired an angry blue burst of fire from its jaws, striking directly against the broadside of the ship. The entire vessel rumbled, bits of charred wood and metal flying in every direction. Eret had to use every ounce of strength in his grip on the ship's rails to withstand the force of the blast, but others weren't so lucky, and got sent hurdling across the deck. The attack not only damaged many of the weapons—and the crew that manned them—but it also blew a wide, gaping hole along the side of the ship. Thick smoke rose from the ugly scar high into the air, obscuring much of the sky and making it difficult for the trappers to breathe.

Ove was among many that got knocked off his feet from the blast. Gritting his teeth, he rose up and wiped the blood from his face, a result of debris striking him in the forehead. With stunning realization, he knew what had just occurred.

The beast had lured him into the trap.

It had used the cover of the sea stacks to hide its movement from his prowling ship. It had baited him, luring him in so that it could strike in close proximity without getting captured.

It was a cold day in Hel before he got outwitted by a dragon.

"Fire!" Ove bellowed.

On cue, the trappers that were still in position let loose their nets, bolas, and arrows into the sky, but the dragon was able to elude them all as it swooped around and flew back into the sea stacks.

"Reload! Now damn you. Get into position and reload!" Ove was shaking with rage.

Many of the trappers were barely getting up, still dazed from the Night Fury's terrible blast. Ove rushed to the nearest bola launcher, yanking away its current occupant and quickly reloading it. He swiveled the contraption towards the rocks and waited.

"Captain!" Eret yelled, leaning over the ship to assess the damage. "Water's starting to leak in. We need to reach land for repairs."

"Hold steady!"

"But—"

"I said hold steady damn it!" Ove could hear the dragon's terrible roars echoing off the rocky cliffs. The thing had to be desperate to launch such a risky attack; under normal circumstances a Night Fury would never expose itself like that. It was now or never. Ove could sense that the dragon understood this as well. His sweaty thumbs hovered over the launch mechanism, a hair away from triggering the bola.

 _Come on you bastard. Reveal yourself one more time._

He didn't have to wait long. The dragon once again shot forth from behind another pillar, diving in for another death strike against the ship. A torrent of trapper devices were shot into the air, but they were fired much too early and the dragon easily avoided them. The dragon continued on its shrieking dive unencumbered, and everyone abandoned their positions for whatever cover they could find.

Everyone except Ove, who still had yet to fire. He waited for the dragon to stop swerving, until he was able to pinpoint the oncoming black blur directly in the crosshairs of his reticle.

 _Just a little closer._

The signature shriek pierced through the sky again, but Ove held firm.

 _Almost there._

The dragon was startlingly close. Close enough to see its brilliant green irises. Close enough to see its mouth opening for a killer salvo. At the last possible second Ove fired the bola.

The dragon fired its own shot, but due to the oncoming metal orbs hurdling towards it, the Night Fury had to swerve wide just as it released its shot. The blue fire blast missed, skimming just over the top of the deck and splashing harmlessly into the water. Unfortunately for the dragon, Ove's bola hit its mark.

The bola struck the dragon's tail, wrapping around the appendage dozens of times as the harsh rope dug deep into its scales. The Night Fury released an agonizing roar.

The black dragon flapped its wings ferociously as it tried to gain altitude, but with its tail immobilized its movements were chaotic and unpredictable. It waggled its tail furiously, trying to shake off the entrapment, but it was of no use; the bolas grip was firm and unyielding. Left with no other option, the Night Fury spread its long, bat-like wings and glided towards the only landmass around—the uninhabited island just some ways from the sea stacks.

Cheers shot forth from the deck of the ship. Even those who were injured from the blast joined in the celebration. For the first time since setting on this voyage, Ove allowed himself to feel triumphant. He had done it. After months of chasing after the legendary beast, he had finally brought it down.

He watched as the dragon haphazardly glided to its only means of safety, a long trail of blood flowing from its tail into the sea. Without its tailfin, the Night Fury couldn't fly. It would be trapped on the island; easy prey for the hunter.

Now all that was left was to make landfall and capture it.

But not everyone was celebrating. "Captain, I'm losing control of the ship," the helmsman yelled amidst the cheers.

Ove could forgive himself for the momentary lapse of memory. He quickly leaned over the edge to examine the extent of the attack, and was dismayed to see that water was indeed starting fill the lower haul. He turned to his helmsman. "Can we make it to land?"

"Aye, I believe so."

"Alright then." He turned to the rest of his crew. "Men, we've done it! We've felled a Night Fury!"

More cheers erupted. Ove put his hands up to calm everyone down. "The bastard gave us a loving parting shot before it fell. We can't sail into open seas until we patch the ship up, so once we hit land we'll begin making repairs. Meanwhile we'll hunt the demon down!"

Amidst the wild cheers of the jubilant crew Eret pushed his way to the captain. "I can't believe you actually hit it!"

"It's not over yet Eret," Ove responded, trying to tamper down the young man's enthusiasm. "We still have to capture it. And I've dealt with beasts long enough to know that they're most dangerous when they're cornered."

* * *

Hiccup supposed that the soggy, slightly spoiled jerky that he ate for breakfast wasn't so bad.

Well, okay, it tasted awful. But as Gobber always said there was no better seasoning than hunger. And Hiccup was starving. He was also thirsty too.

After munching down the last bit of meat he had packed, Hiccup wandered out of the cave and headed for the tree line, being sure to grab the makeshift spear he had crafted the night previous. The sun was just beginning to break into the horizon, and already he could feel its warmth against the chilly morning air. Hiccup had found a suitably large leaf and fashioned it in a way that formed a temporary cup for holding water. He then spent the next half hour carefully collecting bits of due drops from the forest leaves, managing to gather about half a pint, and gulped down the cool liquid with fervor. The minuscule amount of water felt so precious against his tongue, it might as well have been sweet nectar from Asgard. Even with so little, he felt infinitely rejuvenated.

But he needed more. He craved more, and he knew that he couldn't survive from just due alone. So after packing his things and killing the campfire, Hiccup began his trek into the forest.

He held his spear in a tight grip as he ventured cautiously into the thick vegetation. Although he had lots of experience in the wilderness—more than most Berkian teens anyway—he had to remind himself that this wasn't Berk. He didn't know these lands. More importantly, he didn't know what animals lived in these lands, and he wasn't eager to test his luck. So he took every step with trepidation, scanned his surroundings repeatedly, and tried to make as little disturbance as possible. He travelled this way for some time.

Minutes drifted to hours, and Hiccup was beginning to really worry. There had to be fresh water somewhere in this damn forest, but where? Was he even going the right way? Could he remember his way back to the cave? What if he got lost and had to spend the night with no shelter? What if he ran into some foul beast looking for its morning meal?

These thoughts plagued his mind. On Berk, he was as familiar with the forest as he was with his father's ill-tempered disposition. He _knew_ that forest; which paths to take, which to avoid, where the best-tasting fruiting berries were located and the time of year they grew. He knew what wild animals stalked the woods and how to avoid the dangerous ones. He had spent endless hour carefully charting the hills, types of trees, streams that ran from the mountain, cave entrances, canopy clearings, and significant land marks. He even discovered a tranquil canyon that was surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs and overgrown vegetation, accentuated with a clear lake that was filled through an underground stream. Half of Berk's maps in the archives were updated with his illustrations and notations. Berk's forest was as much as home to him as the village was. More so, perhaps.

But in this place the trees were all different. The sounds were foreign and strange. And Gods, it was absolutely sweltering. He wiped a thick coat of sweat from his forehead. Berk's forest was never this humid.

Hiccup was beginning to grow dizzy. Occasional his vision would start spinning or he would grow light-headed. He was severely dehydrated he knew, and wondered how much longer he could endure. His limbs were starting to tremble and every step became an effort in itself. Faintly he reminded himself that if he collapsed in the forest he might as well be good as dead. He leaned against a thick tree trunk for a moment to catch his breath. Gods he needed water. His endurance was nearing its end.

A twig snapped.

Hiccup's head immediately shot up, his eyes wide and fearful. He spun around, but didn't see anything abnormal. He heard a ruffling of leaves, causing him to nearly jump. He gripped his spear with both hands, his attention now focused solely on a nearby bush. He was ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Something small scurried away from the bush and flew towards the sky.

Before Hiccup could even think he let out a pitiful roar—because he definitely didn't yelp—and fell ass-end backwards on the ground. After a moment of heavy breathing and wide-eyed realization, he burst out laughing.

A bird. He nearly wet himself over a bird. Oh, if his father could see him now.

After finally tampering down his laughter, and quietly thanking the Gods that no one was there to see his blunder, Hiccup collected himself and continued on in his search. It wasn't much longer before his persistence was rewarded.

He heard it before he saw it; the delightful sound, like sweet musical chimes, was unmistakable. Running water.

Losing all sense of caution, Hiccup ran towards the water source with what little stamina he had left. Bursting out of the tree line into a wide clearing, he came upon a shallow lake that narrowed into a gentle stream. Well, perhaps lake was a generous term. It was more of a large pond than anything, but to the dehydrated teen it was a welcomed relief regardless.

"Yes! Ha ha! I found it!" He was cheering like a lunatic, but he didn't care. It's not like anyone could see him anyway.

It was fresh water, and was probably large enough to contain a good supply of fish too. The flowing water was banked on both sides by flat, relatively foliage-free ground, with plenty of sunlight overhead due to a generous opening in the canopy above. If Hiccup could think past his terrible thirst, he may have taken a moment to thank the Gods for this wondrous fortune that he stumbled upon. But such gratitude was beyond his exhausted state, and so he simply dropped his spear and satchel and leaped in.

"Woohoo!"

The cool water felt fantastic against his grimy body. For just a moment all of his troubles seemed to disappear. He was no longer on some uninhabited island with little chance of escape; he was back on Berk, taking a leisurely afternoon swim in one of the mountain streams. Hiccup grinned and splashed around like an idiot for a few more minutes before reality finally caught up with him. After taking in his fill of water, he returned to shore and began making camp.

* * *

It took Hiccup the rest of the day to set up a respectable camp. The one big drawback to establishing a camp in an open clearing was that there was no natural shelter to speak of, so the teen spent much of the day creating his own. He built a primitive roof by trimming branches from trees and tying them together with vines and weeds. He then covered it with a layer of mud and large leaves to make it somewhat water proof. The whole thing was propped up by two large branches on one side, forming a triangle on the ground. Finally, he coated the floor with soft underbrush.

Next he went fishing.

The teen knew all about spear fishing of course, but he underestimated just how difficult the process would be. It took hours of careful concentration, quiet movements, and countless disappointments, but eventually he was able to nab a descent sized Pollock that was making its way down stream. Feeling immensely proud of himself, he considered cooking it up immediately—he was so hungry—but held off, instead hanging the fish out to dry. There were other things he needed to do first. Namely, bathe.

After cleaning himself, Hiccup washed both sets of clothes and hung them by the fire. While waiting for them to dry, he delicately removed the bandages from his hands and was pleased to find that no infection had spread. Discarding the old blood-stained bandages, he wrapped the remaining fresh ones around the wounds.

Soon night had fallen.

Hiccup sat on a log-turned-makeshift-seat as he cooked and ate his earlier catch. Having fresh, hot meat in his stomach was a joy that he vowed he would never take for granted again. Somehow, the simple, unseasoned meal tasted better on his tongue than anything some of Berk's finest cooks could whip up. As he devoured his meal, he finally had time to think over his situation beyond the confines of immediate survival, and was rather surprised that the fear and worry he felt earlier was far less present. With a full stomach, clean body, and fresh clothes, Hiccup could dare say he was felt content.

Sure, he was stranded on an uninhabited island, but he was surviving, on his own—something that nobody at home expected him to do. He could build his own shelter, hunt his own food, and devise a plan on how to get off this island. He still had no idea on how he was going to do that, but at least now the perils of death weren't approaching his doorstep. With food and fresh water at hand, he had time to think. He had time to plan.

He needed to climb that tall cliff by the beach to get some bearing on where he might possibly be, but that would have to wait for another day. Hiccup still didn't think he was too far away from Berk. Maybe he could build a raft and hop from land to land until he found some form of civilization, and from there make his way back home. He wondered what everyone's reaction would be at seeing their vanished heir return from the grave. No doubt they probably thought him dead by now.

A sudden wave of guilt gripped him. What was his father going to think? And Gobber? They would mourn him; maybe they were mourning him right now. Hiccup shook his head. His foolishness was probably causing them undue pain. It wasn't right. If nothing else, Hiccup promised himself that he would make it back home, if only to apologize to the two men.

Everyone else though? Would they miss him? Would they be happy if he came back from the dead? Or disappointed? Hiccup felt a painful tug on his heart. He may have been foolish, but he was not stupid. He knew he was not wanted by much of the village, and it hurt. Because even though he didn't fit in, he really did love his village. He wanted what was best for Berk, what was best for its people.

 _Maybe… me being gone_ is _what's best for Berk._

It was a painful thought, but he couldn't dismiss it out of hand. Resting his head against the log, Hiccup looked up at the stars and sighed. When did the Gods decide to make him the village pariah? All he could do was think back to when his social outcast began.

Hiccup closed his eyes trying to remember.

He was ten years of age. His father had gone on yet another nest hunt, and hadn't returned for an exceptionally long time. With his father and Gobber gone, Hiccup had had to stay with Dagmar Hark, one of the village's healers and wife of Pine, who was also on the expedition. Though quite blunt, Dagmar had always been fair with Hiccup and treated him as if he were her own. She was also pregnant at the time, and therefore quite moody, though she never lashed out at Hiccup the way she did to others, even when he deserved it.

Apparently, the Viking convoy had taken serious damage from battle with the winged beasts near Helheim's Gate, and had to set anchor on an uninhabited island for long repairs. But the villagers on Berk knew none of this, and as days drifted into weeks and then months, many had come to believe that they had died a glorious death in battle and would never return. Hiccup always had confidence in his father, and at first he took the long delay in stride. His father couldn't just die out there. He couldn't. He was _Stoick the Vast_ , greatest dragon killer the Archipelago had ever seen, and the strongest person Hiccup had ever known. But as the months passed even he was starting to have doubts. He really missed his dad.

Dagmar was among the few who never lost hope that the warriors would return, and was keen to remind Hiccup of it whenever he got struck by sudden melancholy.

" _Enough moping, boy. Ye ain't leavin' that table til' that plate is clean. Ye gotta be strong an' healthy fer when yer father returns."_

But Hiccup wondered if he ever would. It was the first time the ten year old could ever remember being exceptionally lonely. His friends… well, were they even his friends anymore? His cousin, the twins, they all stopped hanging around him. When he tried to join in with their games, they made excuses for why he couldn't play. When he tried to sit with them at the Great Hall, they suddenly got up and left as if he were the plague. Even Fishlegs began avoiding him.

Even Astrid.

One day in particular Hiccup remembered with great clarity. He was feeling exceptionally depressed that day. Dagmar had kept him toiling away with chores all afternoon, and all he could think about was how life would be like if his dad never came back. When he finished his chores he went to the Great Hall for supper, and there he spotted his five friends—former friends—sitting at one of the tables. The twins were currently having an arm wrestling match as the others were cheering for one Thorsten or the other. Hiccup thought about just ignoring them and sitting by himself, as was starting to become the norm, but the ache in his heart wouldn't go away, and he just wanted someone to talk to.

They cheered loudly as he approached—Ruffnut had won the match, like always—but as soon as his presence was known all the fun seemed to be zapped from the table. An awkward silence weighed heavily in the air. The twins stared at him incredulously. Fishlegs looked uncomfortable. Snotlout sneered. And Astrid… she just stared straight down at the table with a blank expression, no emotion present upon her face.

" _What do you want toothpick?"_ Snotlout had begun addressing Hiccup by that name; at the time he had not yet been bestowed the honor of the title 'useless'—that would come a few years later.

" _I… uh, just wanted to sit down."_

Snotlout pointed across the Hall. _"There's some empty tables over there."_

Hiccup rubbed the back of his neck. _"Um, maybe I can sit with you guys. You know, like we used to?"_

The male Thorsten chimed in. _"What, you mean sit here, while we're here, like, at the same time?"_

Hiccup tried to ignore the rejection evident among the group. He shrugged. _"Sure. Why not?"_

" _Sorry Hiccup,"_ Snotlout said as he leaned back smugly, spreading his arms wide. _"All the seats are taken."_

That wasn't true. There was plenty of room at the table, but Hiccup really wasn't in the mood to argue today, especially when he so clearly wasn't wanted. And honestly, he was really only there for Astrid. He knew she was hurting too—they all were. Their father's had been gone for a long time.

Ignoring his cousin, Hiccup put up a smile. It wasn't a sincere one, but Dagmar had told him that sometimes you needed to smile even when you're feeling sad. _"Hey Astrid, let's sit over there. I came up with some new axe designs to make at the forge and was wondering if maybe you can help me choose the best ones."_ When she took a long time to reply his smile faltered.

Astrid didn't look at him when she responded. Her eyes never once left the table. _"I already have a seat here,"_ she said emotionlessly.

Hiccup's smile faded instantly. The rejection cut deep. He tried hard not to let his anguish show, but inside he just wanted to cry. Out of everyone, he felt his relationship with Astrid had always been special. What changed? What did he do wrong?

Hiccup opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, he simply nodded and turned away, doing his best to hide the stinging tears that swelled behind his eyes. He didn't eat that evening, nor did he return to the Hark Hall. He spent the night in his own room, in his empty house, where he knew no one could hear his sobs.

The six year more mature Hiccup sighed at the painful recollection and got up to quench his thirst. At the pond's edge, the teen cupped his hands and brought water to his face, but something stopped him from taking a sip.

He thought he heard something move. The teen twisted around in high alert, suddenly remembering just how exposed he was in the middle of the forest, but didn't spot anything unusual. Beyond the light of the fire everything sank into total darkness; the black beyond the trees seemed to stretch on to infinity. After a long moment he shrugged and drank his fill, attributing the unknown noise to the crackling of the fire, or maybe just his imagination playing tricks. He was just being anxious he told himself, but he couldn't push away this bizarre feeling that something was watching him.

 _Great, now I'm starting to go crazy. I'll just add delusional to my list of grand achievements._

The teen shook his head and laid to rest for the night.

 _Tomorrow. I'll begin devising a way off this rock tomorrow._ With that thought, he drifted to sleep.

Unbeknownst to the Hiccup, there was indeed something watching him from afar.

Attracted to this place by the unmistakable scent of charred fish, the injured dragon observed the gangly teen from the shadows with absolute hatred.

The Night Fury was starving, but in his current state could not catch fish from the sea. This large body of water was the only location on the island that contained any large quantity of fish. Unfortunately for the dragon, it was currently being occupied by the much detested creature.

The same kind of creature that had taken away his flight.

The Night Fury considered attacking immediately, but the dangerous two-legged mammal had its fire, and pointy things, and so opted not to risk himself while in such a perilous state. He would wait for the human to fall into a deep sleep.

It would present a much easier target to kill.

* * *

The sun was setting when Ove's ship made anchor on the island. And not a moment too soon.

The foul beast had nearly succeeded in sinking his vessel. Had it not been for the close proximity of the island, his ship surely would have succumbed to the sea. To Ove's displeasure, he was forced to beach the ship to keep it from plunging into the ocean depths, which meant it would take an extraordinary effort de-beach the vessel once repairs were made.

And the repairs itself? It would be extensive, time-consuming, and exceptionally laborious. Even if he managed to capture the dragon that night, he would be trapped on the island for many days, possibly weeks, before they could set sail again. And then it would be a long journey to the Roman frontier, where he would meet with the party responsible for announcing the creature's bounty. Ove didn't know why those people were so adamant in obtaining the Night Fury alive, or why they were willing to pay such an exorbitant sum for it, but he wasn't one to ask too many questions when such a lucrative transaction was in his midst.

Such ponderings were for another time. The most pivotal achievement of his life was waiting for him somewhere on this island, which Ove had learned was called _U_ _rðr[1]_. It was a tiny, insignificant little rock that was just large enough to be labeled on some of his more detailed maps he kept in his cabin. Technically, the island was within the realm of the Hairy Hooligan's territory, about twelve leagues[2] away from the isle of Berk.

Once he made landfall, Ove designated three-quarters of his crew to begin cutting down wood while the rest—his top fighters—would accompany him on the hunt. After the injured trappers had time to bandaged themselves up, set up a perimeter, and begin repairs in earnest, Ove and his hunters set out into the forest. Their primary goal was to find any large source of water; that's where the dragon would be.

When total darkness fell Ove ordered his men to extinguish the torches, as it would be easier to see at greater distances, and also prevent them from being detected easily. By the light of the moon, the trappers delved deeper inland. All remained silent, even the normally brash Eret. They all knew that, somewhere in this forest, lurked one of the most deadly creatures alive.

Ove spotted something in the distance and halted immediately, placing a hand up for the others to do the same. All around them was near total blackness, with just a tiny glimmer of the moon's light shining through the canopy. But far off ahead, the gentle glow of a fire could be seen, the unmistakable sign of a campfire.

Eret saw it too. "I thought this island was supposed to be uninhabited," the brawny man whispered.

"Yes," Ove whispered back. "Just because it says so on the map doesn't make it true though." Damn. If there were other people here that would certainly complicate things.

They resumed their approach, silently creeping ever closer to the fire, when suddenly they heard an incredible roar thunder through the forest. The owner of the angry bellow could not be mistaken, nor the direction from which it came.

"Men, advance ahead!" Ove shouted.

Leaving all pretense of silence behind, the trappers raised their weapons and charged straight for the campfire.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Special thanks to Eretsonoferet, Lumen del Mari, Natblake, CobaltAC, Tellemicus Sundance, and everyone else who has reviewed this story. You guys are awesome.**

 **[1] _Urðr_ – In Norse mythology, this referred to the concept of fate. It was also the name of one of three norns who drew water from the _Urðarbrunnr_ (well of fate).**

 **[2] While the length of a league was different for every culture, in this story 1 league = 5.55 kilometers (3.4 miles), so Urðr is about 66 kilometers (41 miles) away from Berk.**


End file.
